Isaac Asimov - Second Foundation

And, in addition to all the millions of worlds of the Galaxy, there were millions of local times, based on the motions of their own particular heavenly neighbors.

But whichever you choose: 185; 11692-455-376-76—or anything—it was this day which historians later pointed to when they spoke of the start of the Stettinian war.

Yet to Dr. Darell, it was none of these at all. It was simply and quite precisely the thirty-second day since Arcadia had left Terminus.

What it cost Darell to maintain stolidity through these days was not obvious to everyone.

But Elvett Semic thought he could guess. He was an old man and fond of saying that his neuronic sheaths had calcified to the point where his thinking processes were stiff and unwieldy. He invited and almost welcomed the universal underestimation of his decaying powers by being the first to laugh at them. But his eyes were none the less seeing for being faded; his mind none the less experienced and wise for being no longer agile.

He merely twisted his pinched lips and said, “Why don’t you do something about it?”

The sound was a physical jar to Darell, under which he winced. He said, gruffly, “Where were we?”

Semic regarded him with grave eyes. “You’d better do something about the girl.” His sparse, yellow teeth showed in a mouth that was open in inquiry.

But Darell replied coldly, “The question is: Can you get a Symes-Molff Resonator in the range required?”

“Well, I said I could and you weren’t listening—”

“I’m sorry, Elvett. It’s like this. What we’re doing now can be more important to everyone in the Galaxy than the question of whether Arcadia is safe. At least, to everyone but Arcadia and myself, and I’m willing to go along with the majority. How big would the Resonator be?”

Semic looked doubtful, “I don’t know. You can find it somewheres in the catalogues.”

“About how big? A ton? A pound? A block long?”

“Oh, I thought you meant exactly. It’s a little jigger.” He indicated the first joint of his thumb. “About that.”

“All right, can you do something like this?” He sketched rapidly on the pad he held in his lap, then passed it over to the old physicist, who peered at it doubtfully, then chuckled.

“Y’know, the brain gets calcified when you get as old as I am. What are you trying to do?”

Darell hesitated. He longed desperately, at the moment, for the physical knowledge locked in the other’s brain, so that he need not put his thought into words. But the longing was useless, and he explained.

Semic was shaking his head. “You’d need hyper-relays. The only things that would work fast enough. A thundering lot of them.”

“But it can be built?”

“Well, sure.”

“Can you get all the parts? I mean, without causing comment? In line with your general work.”

Semic lifted his upper lip. “Can’t get fifty hyper-relays. I wouldn’t use that many in my whole life.”

“We’re on a defense project, now. Can’t you think of something harmless that would use them? We’ve got the money.”

“Hm-m-m. Maybe I can think of something.”

“How small can you make the whole gadget?”

“Hyper-relays can be had micro-size . . . wiring . . . chips—Space, you’ve got a few hundred circuits there.”

“I know. How big?”

Semic indicated with his hands.

“Too big,” said Darell. “I’ve got to swing it from my belt.”

Slowly, he was crumpling his sketch into a tight ball. When it was a hard, yellow grape, he dropped it into the ash tray and it was gone with the tiny white flare of molecular decomposition.

He said, “Who’s at your door?”

Semic leaned over his desk to the little milky screen above the door signal. He said, “The young fellow, Anthor. Someone with him, too.”

Darell scraped his chair back. “Nothing about this, Semic, to the others yet. It’s deadly knowledge, if they find out, and two lives are enough to risk.”

Pelleas Anthor was a pulsing vortex of activity in Semic’s office, which, somehow, managed to partake of the age of its occupant. In the slow turgor of the quiet room, the loose, summery sleeves of Anthor’s tunic seemed still a-quiver with the outer breezes.

He said, “Dr. Darell, Dr. Semic—Orum Dirige.”

The other man was tall. A long straight nose that lent his thin face a saturnine appearance. Dr. Darell held out a hand.

Anthor smiled slightly. “Police Lieutenant Dirige,” he amplified. Then, significantly, “Of Kalgan.”

And Darell turned to stare with force at the young man. “Police Lieutenant Dirige of Kalgan,” he repeated, distinctly. “And you bring him here. Why?”

“Because he was the last man on Kalgan to see your daughter. Hold, man.”

Anthor’s look of triumph was suddenly one of concern, and he was between the two, struggling violently with Darell. Slowly, and not gently, he forced the older man back into the chair.

“What are you trying to do?” Anthor brushed a lock of brown hair from his forehead, tossed a hip lightly upon the desk, and swung a leg, thoughtfully. “I thought I was bringing you good news.”

Darell addressed the policeman directly. “What does he mean by calling you the last man to see my daughter? Is my daughter dead? Please tell me without preliminary.” His face was white with apprehension.

Lieutenant Dirige said expressionlessly, “ ‘Last man on Kalgan’ was the phrase. She’s not on Kalgan now. I have no knowledge past that.”

“Here,” broke in Anthor, “let me put it straight. Sorry if I overplayed the drama a bit, doc. You’re so inhuman about this, I forget you have feelings. In the first place, Lieutenant Dirige is one of us. He was born on Kalgan, but his father was a Foundation man brought to that planet in the service of the Mule. I answer for the lieutenant’s loyalty to the Foundation.

“Now I was in touch with him the day after we stopped getting the daily report from Munn—”

“Why?” broke in Darell, fiercely. “I thought it was quite decided that we were not to make a move in the matter. You were risking their lives and ours.”

“Because,” was the equally fierce retort, “I’ve been involved in this game for longer than you. Because I know of certain contacts on Kalgan of which you know nothing. Because I act from deeper knowledge, do you understand?”

“I think you’re completely mad.”

“Will you listen?”

A pause, and Darell’s eyes dropped.

Anthor’s lips quirked into a half smile. “All right, doc. Give me a few minutes. Tell him, Dirige.”

Dirige spoke easily: “As far as I know, Dr. Darell, your daughter is at Trantor. At least, she had a ticket to Trantor at the Eastern Spaceport. She was with a trading representative from that planet who claimed she was his niece. Your daughter seems to have a queer collection of relatives, doctor. That was the second uncle she had in a period of two weeks, eh? The Trantorian even tried to bribe me—probably thinks that’s why they got away.” He smiled grimly at the thought.

“How was she?”

“Unharmed, as far as I could see. Frightened. I don’t blame her for that. The whole department was after her. I still don’t know why.”

Darell drew a breath for what seemed the first time in several minutes. He was conscious of the trembling of his hands and controlled them with an effort. “Then she’s all right. This trading representative, who was he? Go back to him. What part does he play in it?”

“ I don’t know. Do you know anything about Trantor?”

“I lived there once.”

“It’s an agricultural world, now. Exports animal fodder and grains, mostly. High quality! They sell them all over the Galaxy. There are a dozen or two farm co-operatives on the planet and each has its representatives overseas. Shrewd sons of guns, too—I knew this one’s record. He’d been on Kalgan before, usually with his wife. Perfectly honest. Perfectly harmless.”