Isaac Asimov - Second Foundation

“And they’re losing?”

Again the nod.

Arcadia felt the unbearable catch in her throat, and slowly approached the table. “Is it over?” she whispered.

“Over?” repeated Pappa, with false heartiness. “Who said it was over? In war, lots of things can happen. And . . . and—”

“Sit down, darling,” said Mamma, soothingly. “No one should talk before breakfast. You’re not in a healthy condition with no food in the stomach.”

But Arcadia ignored her. “Are the Kalganians on Terminus?”

“No,” said Pappa, seriously. “The news is from last week, and Terminus is still fighting. This is honest. I’m telling the truth. And the Foundation is still strong. Do you want me to get you the newspapers?”

“Yes!”

She read them over what she could eat of her breakfast and her eyes blurred as she read. Santanni and Korell were gone—without a fight. A squadron of the Foundation’s navy had been trapped in the sparsely-sunned Ifni sector and wiped out to almost the last ship.

And now the Foundation was back to the Four-Kingdom core—the original Realm which had been built up under Salvor Hardin, the first mayor. But still it fought—and still there might be a chance—and whatever happened, she must inform her father. She must somehow reach his ear. She must !

But how? With a war in the way.

She asked Pappa after breakfast, “Are you going out on a new mission soon, Mr. Palver?”

Pappa was on the large chair on the front lawn, sunning himself. A fat cigar smoldered between his plump fingers and he looked like a beatific pug-dog.

“A mission?” he repeated, lazily. “Who knows? It’s a nice vacation and my leave isn’t up. Why talk about new missions? You’re restless, Arkady?”

“Me? No, I like it here. You’re very good to me, you and Mrs. Palver.”

He waved his hand at her, brushing away her words.

Arcadia said, “I was thinking about the war.”

“But don’t think about it. What can you do? If it’s something you can’t help, why hurt yourself over it?”

“But I was thinking that the Foundation has lost most of its farming worlds. They’re probably rationing food there.”

Pappa looked uncomfortable. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

She scarcely listened. “I wish I could carry food to them, that’s what. You know after the Mule died, and the Foundation rebelled, Terminus was just about isolated for a time and General Han Pritcher, who succeeded the Mule for a while, was laying siege to it. Food was running awfully low and my father says that his father told him that they only had dry amino-acid concentrates that tasted terrible. Why, one egg cost two hundred credits. And then they broke the siege just in time and food ships came through from Santanni. It must have been an awful time. Probably it’s happening all over, now.”

There was a pause, and then Arcadia said, “You know, I’ll bet the Foundation would be willing to pay smuggler’s prices for food now. Double and triple and more. Gee, if any co-operative, f’r instance, here on Trantor took over the job, they might lose some ships, but I’ll bet they’d be war millionaires before it was over. The Foundation Traders in the old days used to do that all the time. There’d be a war, so they’d sell whatever was needed bad and take their chances. Golly, they used to make as much as two million credits out of one trip— profit . That was just out of what they could carry on one ship, too.”

Pappa stirred. His cigar had gone out, unnoticed. “A deal for food, huh? Hm-m-m— But the Foundation is so far away.”

“Oh, I know. I guess you couldn’t do it from here. If you took a regular liner you probably couldn’t get closer than Massena or Smushyk, and after that you’d have to hire a small scoutship or something to slip you through the lines.”

Pappa’s hand brushed at his hair, as he calculated.

Two weeks later, arrangements for the mission were completed. Mamma railed for most of the time—First, at the incurable obstinacy with which he courted suicide. Then, at the incredible obstinacy with which he refused to allow her to accompany him.

Pappa said, “Mamma, why do you act like an old lady? I can’t take you. It’s a man’s work. What do you think a war is? Fun? Child’s play?”

“Then why do you go? Are you a man, you old fool—with a leg and half an arm in the grave? Let some of the young ones go—not a fat bald-head like you.”

“I’m not a bald-head,” retorted Pappa, with dignity. “I got yet lots of hair. And why should it not be me that gets the commission? Why a young fellow? Listen, this could mean millions.”

She knew that and she subsided.

Arcadia saw him once before he left.

She said, “Are you going to Terminus?”

“Why not? You say yourself they need bread and rice and potatoes. Well, I’ll make a deal with them, and they’ll get it.”

“Well, then—just one thing: If you’re going to Terminus, could you . . . would you see my father?”

And Pappa’s face crinkled and seemed to melt into sympathy, “Oh—and I have to wait for you to tell me. Sure, I’ll see him. I’ll tell him you’re safe and everything’s O.K., and when the war is over, I’ll bring you back.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell you how to find him. His name is Dr. Toran Darell and he lives in Stanmark. That’s just outside Terminus City, and you can get a little commuting plane that goes there. We’re at 55 Channel Drive.”

“Wait, and I’ll write it down.”

“No, no,” Arcadia’s arm shot out. “You mustn’t write anything down. You must remember—and find him without anybody’s help.”

Pappa looked puzzled. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then. It’s 55 Channel Drive in Stanmark, outside Terminus City, and you commute there by plane. All right?”

“One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Would you tell him something from me?”

“Sure.”

“I want to whisper it to you.”

He leaned his plump cheek toward her, and the little whispered sound passed from one to the other.

Pappa’s eyes were round. “That’s what you want me to say? But it doesn’t make sense.”

“He’ll know what you mean. Just say I sent it and that I said he would know what it means. And you say it exactly the way I told you. No different. You won’t forget it?”

“How can I forget it? Five little words. Look—”

“No, no.” She hopped up and down in the intensity of her feelings. “Don’t repeat it. Don’t ever repeat it to anyone. Forget all about it except to my father. Promise me.”

Pappa shrugged again. “I promise! All right!”

“All right,” she said, mournfully, and as he passed down the drive to where the air-taxi waited to take him to the spaceport, she wondered if she had signed his death warrant. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

She scarcely dared to walk into the house again to face the good, kind Mamma. Maybe when it was all over, she had better kill herself for what she had done to them.

QUORISTON, BATTLE OFFought on 1, 3, 377 F.E. between the forces of the Foundation and those of Lord Stettin of Kalgan, it was the last battle of consequence during the Interregnum. . . .

Jole Turbor, in his new role of war correspondent, found his bulk incased in a naval uniform, and rather liked it. He enjoyed being back on the air, and some of the fierce helplessness of the futile fight against the Second Foundation left him in the excitement of another sort of fight with substantial ships and ordinary men.

To be sure, the Foundation’s fight had not been remarkable for victories, but it was still possible to be philosophic about the matter. After six months, the hard core of the Foundation was untouched, and the hard core of the Fleet was still in being. With the new additions since the start of the war, it was almost as strong numerically, and stronger technically, than before the defeat at Ifni.