Isaac Asimov - Second Foundation

And on a one-man sports-cruiser such as the Unimara, living space consisted essentially of a single room, so that there wasn’t even the risky possibility of sneaking out of the compartment while Munn was engaged elsewhere.

She waited frantically for the sounds of sleep to arise. If only she knew whether he snored. At least she knew where the bunk was and she could recognize the rolling protest of one when she heard it. There was a long breath and then a yawn. She waited through a gathering silence, punctuated by the bunk’s soft protest against a changed position or a shifted leg.

The door of the luggage compartment opened easily at the pressure of her finger, and her craning neck—

There was a definite human sound that broke off sharply.

Arcadia solidified. Silence! Still silence!

She tried to poke her eyes outside the door without moving her head and failed. The head followed the eyes.

Homir Munn was awake, of course—reading in bed, bathed in the soft, unspreading bed light, staring into the darkness with wide eyes, and groping one hand stealthily under the pillow.

Arcadia’s head moved sharply back of itself. Then, the light went out entirely and Munn’s voice said with shaky sharpness, “I’ve got a blaster, and I’m shooting, by the Galaxy—”

And Arcadia wailed, “It’s only me. Don’t shoot.”

Remarkable what a fragile flower romance is. A blaster with a nervous operator behind it can spoil the whole thing.

The light was back on—all over the ship—and Munn was sitting up in bed. The somewhat grizzled hair on his thin chest and the sparse one-day growth on his chin lent him an entirely fallacious appearance of disreputability.

Arcadia stepped out, yanking at her metallene jacket which was supposed to be guaranteed wrinkleproof.

After a wild moment in which he almost jumped out of bed, but remembered, and instead yanked the sheet up to his shoulders, Munn gargled, “W . . . wha . . . what—”

He was completely incomprehensible.

Arcadia said meekly, “Would you excuse me for a minute? I’ve got to wash my hands.” She knew the geography of the vessel, and slipped away quickly. When she returned, with her courage oozing back, Homir Munn was standing before her with a faded bathrobe on the outside and a brilliant fury on the inside.

“What the black holes of Space are you d . . . doing aboard this ship? H . . . how did you get on here? What do you th . . . think I’m supposed to do with you? What’s going on here?”

He might have asked questions indefinitely, but Arcadia interrupted sweetly, “I just wanted to come along, Uncle Homir.”

“ Why ? I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re going to Kalgan for information about the Second Foundation.”

And Munn let out a wild howl and collapsed completely. For one horrified moment, Arcadia thought he would have hysterics or beat his head against the wall. He was still holding the blaster and her stomach grew ice-cold as she watched it.

“Watch out— Take it easy—” was all she could think of to say.

But he struggled back to relative normality and threw the blaster onto the bunk with a force that should have set it off and blown a hole through the ship’s hull.

“How did you get on?” he asked slowly, as though gripping each word with his teeth very carefully to prevent it from trembling before letting it out.

“It was easy. I just came into the hangar with my suitcase, and said, ‘Mr. Munn’s baggage!’ and the man in charge just waved his thumb without even looking up.”

“I’ll have to take you back, you know,” said Homir, and there was a sudden wild glee within him at the thought. By Space, this wasn’t his fault.

“You can’t,” said Arcadia, calmly, “it would attract attention.”

“What?”

“ You know. The whole purpose of your going to Kalgan was because it was natural for you to go and ask for permission to look into the Mule’s records. And you’ve got to be so natural that you’re to attract no attention at all. If you go back with a girl stowaway, it might even get into the tele-news reports.”

“Where did you g . . . get those notions about Kalgan? These . . . uh . . . childish—” He was far too flippant for conviction, of course, even to one who knew less than did Arcadia.

“I heard,” she couldn’t avoid pride completely, “with a sound-recorder. I know all about it—so you’ve got to let me come along.”

“What about your father?” He played a quick trump. “For all he knows, you’re kidnapped . . . dead.”

“I left a note,” she said, overtrumping, “and he probably knows he mustn’t make a fuss, or anything. You’ll probably get a spacegram from him.”

To Munn the only explanation was sorcery, because the receiving signal sounded wildly two seconds after she finished.

She said: “That’s my father, I bet,” and it was.

The message wasn’t long and it was addressed to Arcadia. It said: “Thank you for your lovely present, which I’m sure you put to good use. Have a good time.”

“You see,” she said, “that’s instructions.”

Homir grew used to her. After a while, he was glad she was there. Eventually, he wondered how he would have made it without her. She prattled! She was excited! Most of all, she was completely unconcerned. She knew the Second Foundation was the enemy, yet it didn’t bother her. She knew that on Kalgan, he was to deal with a hostile officialdom, but she could hardly wait.

Maybe it came of being fourteen.

At any rate, the week-long trip now meant conversation rather than introspection. To be sure, it wasn’t a very enlightening conversation, since it concerned, almost entirely, the girl’s notions on the subject of how best to treat the Lord of Kalgan. Amusing and nonsensical, and yet delivered with weighty deliberation.

Homir found himself actually capable of smiling as he listened and wondered out of just which gem of historical fiction she got her twisted notion of the great universe.

It was the evening before the last jump. Kalgan was a bright star in the scarcely-twinkling emptiness of the outer reaches of the Galaxy. The ship’s telescope made it a sparkling blob of barely-perceptible diameter.

Arcadia sat cross-legged in the good chair. She was wearing a pair of slacks and a none-too-roomy shirt that belonged to Homir. Her own more feminine wardrobe had been washed and ironed for the landing.

She said, “I’m going to write historical novels, you know.” She was quite happy about the trip. Uncle Homir didn’t in the least mind listening to her and it made conversation so much more pleasant when you could talk to a really intelligent person who was serious about what you said.

She continued: “I’ve read books and books about all the great men of Foundation history. You know, like Seldon, Hardin, Mallow, Devers, and all the rest. I’ve even read most of what you’ve written about the Mule, except that it isn’t much fun to read those parts where the Foundation loses. Wouldn’t you rather read a history where they skipped the silly, tragic parts?”

“Yes, I would,” Munn assured her, gravely. “But it wouldn’t be a fair history, would it, Arkady? You’d never get academic respect, unless you give the whole story.”

“Oh, poof. Who cares about academic respect?” She found him delightful. He hadn’t missed calling her Arkady for days. “My novels are going to be interesting and are going to sell and be famous. What’s the use of writing books unless you sell them and become well-known? I don’t want just some old professors to know me. It’s got to be everybody.”

Her eyes darkened with pleasure at the thought and she wriggled into a more comfortable position. “In fact, as soon as I can get father to let me, I’m going to visit Trantor, so’s I can get background material on the First Empire, you know. I was born on Trantor; did you know that?”