Isaac Asimov - Second Foundation

“Those that say a renewal of the Galactic Offensive is being planned. It is a hope with me that such is true and that I might play an appropriate part.”

“Then you think there is a Second Foundation?”

“Why not? It would make things so much more interesting.”

“And you find interest in it as well?”

“Certainly. In the very mystery of it! What better subject could you find for conjecture? The newspaper supplements are full of nothing else lately—which is probably significant. The Cosmos had one of its feature writers compose a weirdie about a world consisting of beings of pure mind—the Second Foundation, you see—who had developed mental force to energies large enough to compete with any known to physical science. Spaceships could be blasted light-years away, planets could be turned out of their orbits—”

“Interesting. Yes. But do you have any notions on the subject? Do you subscribe to this mind-power notion?”

“Galaxy, no! Do you think creatures like that would stay on their own planet? No, sir. I think the Second Foundation remains hidden because it is weaker than we think.”

“In that case, I can explain myself very easily. How would you like to head an expedition to locate the Second Foundation?”

For a moment Channis seemed caught up by the sudden rush of events at just a little greater speed than he was prepared for. His tongue had apparently skidded to a halt in a lengthening silence.

The Mule said dryly: “Well?”

Channis corrugated his forehead. “Certainly. But where am I to go? Have you any information available?”

“General Pritcher will be with you—”

“Then I’m not to head it?”

“Judge for yourself when I’m done. Listen, you’re not of the Foundation. You’re a native of Kalgan, aren’t you? Yes. Well, then, your knowledge of the Seldon plan may be vague. When the first Galactic Empire was falling, Hari Seldon and a group of psychohistorians, analyzing the future course of history by mathematical tools no longer available in these degenerate times, set up two Foundations, one at each end of the Galaxy, in such a way that the economic and sociological forces that were slowly evolving would make them serve as foci for the Second Empire. Hari Seldon planned on a thousand years to accomplish that—and it would have taken thirty thousand without the Foundations. But he couldn’t count on me . I am a mutant and I am unpredictable by psychohistory, which can only deal with the average reactions of numbers. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir. But how does that involve me?”

“You’ll understand shortly. I intend to unite the Galaxy now—and reach Seldon’s thousand-year goal in three hundred. One Foundation—the world of physical scientists—is still flourishing, under me . Under the prosperity and order of the Union, the nuclear weapons they have developed are capable of dealing with anything in the Galaxy—except perhaps the Second Foundation. So I must know more about it. General Pritcher is of the definite opinion that it does not exist at all. I know otherwise.”

Channis said delicately: “How do you know, sir?”

And the Mule’s words were suddenly liquid indignation: “Because minds under my control have been interfered with. Delicately! Subtly! But not so subtly that I couldn’t notice. And these interferences are increasing, and hitting valuable men at important times. Do you wonder now that a certain discretion has kept me motionless these years?

“That is your importance. General Pritcher is the best man left me, so he is no longer safe. Of course, he does not know that. But you are Unconverted and therefore not instantly detectable as a Mule’s man. You may fool the Second Foundation longer than one of my own men would—perhaps just sufficiently longer. Do you understand?”

“Um-m-m. Yes. But pardon me, sir, if I question you. How are these men of yours disturbed, so that I might detect change in General Pritcher, in case any occurs. Are they Unconverted again? Do they become disloyal?”

“No. I told you it was subtle. It’s more disturbing than that, because it’s harder to detect and sometimes I have to wait before acting, uncertain whether a key man is being normally erratic or has been tampered with. Their loyalty is left intact, but initiative and ingenuity are rubbed out. I’m left with a perfectly normal person, apparently, but one completely useless. In the last year, six have been so treated. Six of my best.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “They’re in charge of training bases now—and my most earnest wishes go with them that no emergencies come up for them to decide upon.”

“Suppose, sir . . . suppose it were not the Second Foundation. What if it were another, such as yourself—another mutant?”

“The planning is too careful, too long range. A single man would be in a greater hurry. No, it is a world, and you are to be my weapon against it.”

Channis’ eyes shone as he said: “I’m delighted at the chance.”

But the Mule caught the sudden emotional upwelling. He said: “Yes, apparently it occurs to you, that you will perform a unique service, worthy of a unique reward—perhaps even that of being my successor. Quite so. But there are unique punishments, too, you know. My emotional gymnastics are not confined to the creation of loyalty alone.”

And the little smile on his thin lips was grim, as Channis leaped out of his seat in horror.

For just an instant, just one, flashing instant, Channis had felt the pang of an overwhelming grief close over him. It had slammed down with a physical pain that had blackened his mind unbearably, and then lifted. Now nothing was left but the strong wash of anger.

The Mule said: “Anger won’t help . . . yes, you’re covering it up now, aren’t you? But I can see it. So just remember— that sort of business can be made more intense and kept up. I’ve killed men by emotional control, and there’s no death crueler.”

He paused: “That’s all!”

The Mule was alone again. He let the lights die and the wall before him kicked to transparency again. The sky was black, and the rising body of the Galactic Lens was spreading its bespanglement across the velvet depths of space.

All that haze of nebula was a mass of stars so numerous that they melted one into the other and left nothing but a cloud of light.

And all to be his—

And now but one last arrangement to make, and he could sleep.

The Executive Council of the Second Foundation was in session. To us they are merely voices. Neither the exact scene of the meeting nor the identity of those present are essential at this point.

Nor, strictly speaking, can we even consider an exact reproduction of any part of the session—unless we wish to sacrifice completely even the minimum comprehensibility we have a right to expect.

We deal here with psychologists—and not merely psychologists. Let us say, rather, scientists with a psychological orientation. That is, men whose fundamental conception of scientific philosophy is pointed in an entirely different direction from all of the orientations we know. The “psychology” of scientists brought up among the axioms deduced from the observational habits of physical science has only the vaguest relationship to PSYCHOLOGY.

Which is about as far as I can go in explaining color to a blind man—with myself as blind as the audience.

The point being made is that the minds assembled understood thoroughly the workings of each other, not only by general theory but by the specific application over a long period of these theories to particular individuals. Speech as known to us was unnecessary. A fragment of a sentence amounted almost to long-winded redundancy. A gesture, a grunt, the curve of a facial line—even a significantly timed pause yielded informational juice.