Isaac Asimov - Foundation and Empire

Toran laughed, “Oh, you enchantress. Go ahead, Bay, that deserves a five-credit piece. Let him have it.”

But the clown was forward with a jump. “No, my lady, mistake me not. I spoke for money not at all, but for bright eyes and sweet face.”

“Well, thanks ,” then, to Toran, “Golly, you think the sun’s in his eyes?”

“Yet not alone for eyes and face,” babbled the clown, as his words hurled past each other in heightened frenzy, “but also for a mind, clear and sturdy—and kind as well.”

Toran rose to his feet, reached for the white robe he had crooked his arm about for four days, and slipped into it. “Now, bud,” he said, “suppose you tell me what you want, and stop annoying the lady.”

The clown fell back a frightened step, his meager body cringing. “Now, sure I meant no harm. I am a stranger here, and it’s been said I am of addled wits; yet there is something in a face that I can read. Behind this lady’s fairness, there is a heart that’s kind, and that would help me in my trouble for all I speak so boldly.”

“Will five credits cure your trouble?” said Toran, dryly, and held out the coin.

But the clown did not move to take it, and Bayta said, “Let me talk to him, Torie.” She added swiftly, and in an undertone, “There’s no use being annoyed at his silly way of talking. That’s just his dialect; and our speech is probably as strange to him.”

She said, “What is your trouble? You’re not worried about the guard, are you? He won’t bother you.”

“Oh, no, not he. He’s but a windlet that blows the dust about my ankles. There is another that I flee, and he is a storm that sweeps the worlds aside and throws them plunging at each other. A week ago, I ran away, have slept in city streets, and hid in city crowds. I’ve looked in many faces for help in need. I find it here.” He repeated the last phrase in softer, anxious tones, and his large eyes were troubled, “I find it here.”

“Now,” said Bayta, reasonably, “I would like to help, but really, friend, I’m no protection against a world-sweeping storm. To be truthful about it, I could use—”

There was an uplifted, powerful voice that bore down upon them.

“Now, then, you mud-spawned rascal—”

It was the beach guard, with a fire-red face and snarling mouth, that approached at a run. He pointed with his low-power stun pistol.

“Hold him, you two. Don’t let him get away.” His heavy hand fell upon the clown’s thin shoulder, so that a whimper was squeezed out of him.

Toran said, “What’s he done?”

“What’s he done? What’s he done? Well, now, that’s good!” The guard reached inside the dangling pocket attached to his belt, and removed a purple handkerchief, with which he mopped his bare neck. He said with relish, “I’ll tell you what he’s done. He’s run away. The word’s all over Kalgan and I would have recognized him before this if he had been on his feet instead of on his hawkface top.” And he rattled his prey in a fierce good humor.

Bayta said with a smile, “Now where did he escape from, sir?”

The guard raised his voice. A crowd was gathering, pop-eyed and jabbering, and with the increase of audience, the guard’s sense of importance increased in direct ratio.

“Where did he escape from?” he declaimed in high sarcasm. “Why, I suppose you’ve heard of the Mule, now.”

All jabbering stopped, and Bayta felt a sudden iciness trickle down into her stomach. The clown had eyes only for her—he still quivered in the guard’s brawny grasp.

“And who,” continued the guard heavily, “would this infernal ragged piece be, but his lordship’s own court fool who’s run away.” He jarred his captive with a massive shake, “Do you admit it, fool?”

There was only white fear for answer, and the soundless sibilance of Bayta’s voice close to Toran’s ear.

Toran stepped forward to the guard in friendly fashion, “Now, my man, suppose you take your hand away for just a while. This entertainer you hold has been dancing for us and has not yet danced out his fee.”

“Here!” The guard’s voice rose in sudden concern. “There’s a reward—”

“You’ll have it, if you can prove he’s the man you want. Suppose you withdraw till then. You know that you’re interfering with a guest, which could be serious for you.”

“But you’re interfering with his lordship and that will be serious for you.” He shook the clown once again. “Return the man’s fee, carrion.”

Toran’s hand moved quickly and the guard’s stun pistol was wrenched away with half a finger nearly following it. The guard howled his pain and rage. Toran shoved him violently aside, and the clown, unhanded, scuttled behind him.

The crowd, whose fringes were now lost to the eye, paid little attention to the latest development. There was among them a craning of necks, and a centrifugal motion as if many had decided to increase their distance from the center of activity.

Then there was a bustle, and a rough order in the distance. A corridor formed itself and two men strode through, electric whips in careless readiness. Upon each purple blouse was designed an angular shaft of lightning with a splitting planet underneath.

A dark giant, in lieutenant’s uniform, followed them; dark of skin, and hair, and scowl.

The dark man spoke with the dangerous softness that meant he had little need of shouting to enforce his whims. He said, “Are you the man who notified us?”

The guard was still holding his wrenched hand, and with a pain-distorted face mumbled, “I claim the reward, your mightiness, and I accuse that man—”

“You’ll get your reward,” said the lieutenant, without looking at him. He motioned curtly to his men, “Take him.”

Toran felt the clown tearing at his robe with a maddened grip.

He raised his voice and kept it from shaking, “I’m sorry, lieutenant; this man is mine.”

The soldiers took the statement without blinking. One raised his whip casually, but the lieutenant’s snapped order brought it down.

His dark mightiness swung forward and planted his square body before Toran, “Who are you?”

And the answer rang out, “A citizen of the Foundation.”

It worked—with the crowd, at any rate. The pent-up silence broke into an intense hum. The Mule’s name might excite fear, but it was, after all, a new name and scarcely stuck as deeply in the vitals as the old one of the Foundation—that had destroyed the Empire—and the fear of which ruled a quadrant of the Galaxy with ruthless despotism.

The lieutenant kept face. He said, “Are you aware of the identity of the man behind you?”

“I have been told he’s a runaway from the court of your leader, but my only sure knowledge is that he is a friend of mine. You’ll need firm proof of his identity to take him.”

There were high-pitched sighs from the crowd, but the lieutenant let it pass. “Have you your papers of Foundation citizenship with you?”

“At my ship.”

“You realize that your actions are illegal? I can have you shot.”

“Undoubtedly. But then you would have shot a Foundation citizen and it is quite likely that your body would be sent to the Foundation—quartered—as part compensation. It’s been done by other warlords.”

The lieutenant wet his lips. The statement was true.

He said, “Your name?”

Toran followed up his advantage, “I will answer further questions at my ship. You can get the cell number at the Hangar; it is registered under the name ‘Bayta.’ ”

“You won’t give up the runaway?”

“To the Mule, perhaps. Send your master!”

The conversation had degenerated to a whisper and the lieutenant turned sharply away.