Isaac Asimov - Foundation and Empire

“Where’d you hear that the Mule got the guts beat out of him?” demanded the pilot, loftily.

“Foundation radio.”

“Yeah? Well, the Mule’s got Horleggor. We almost ran into a convoy of his ships, and that’s where they were coming from. It isn’t a gut-beating when you stay where you fought, and the gut-beater leaves in a hurry.”

Someone else said in a high, blurred voice, “Don’t talk like that. Foundation always takes it on the chin for a while. You watch; just sit tight and watch. Ol’ Foundation knows when to come back. And then— pow! ” The thick voice concluded and was succeeded by a bleary grin.

“Anyway,” said the pilot from Haven, after a short pause, “as I say, we saw the Mule’s ships, and they looked pretty good, pretty good. I tell you what—they looked new.”

“New?” said the native, thoughtfully. “They build them themselves?” He broke a leaf from an overhanging branch, sniffed delicately at it, then crunched it between his teeth, the bruised tissues bleeding greenly and diffusing a minty odor. He said, “You trying to tell me they beat Foundation ships with home-built jobs? Go on.”

“We saw them, doc. And I can tell a ship from a comet, too, you know.”

The native leaned close. “You know what I think. Listen, don’t kid yourself. Wars don’t just start by themselves, and we have a bunch of shrewd apples running things. They know what they’re doing.”

The well-unthirsted one said with sudden loudness, “You watch ol’ Foundation. They wait for the last minute, then pow! ” He grinned with vacuously open mouth at the girl, who moved away from him.

The Radolian was saying, “For instance, old man, you think maybe that this Mule guy’s running things. No-o-o.” And he wagged a finger horizontally. “The way I hear it, and from pretty high up, mind you, he’s our boy. We’re paying him off, and we probably built those ships. Let’s be realistic about it—we probably did. Sure, he can’t beat the Foundation in the long run, but he can get them shaky, and when he does— we get in .”

The girl said, “Is that all you can talk about, Klev? The war? You make me tired.”

The pilot from Haven said, in an excess of gallantry, “Change the subject. Can’t make the girls tired.”

The bedewed one took up the refrain and banged a mug to the rhythm. The little groups of two that had formed broke up with giggles and swagger, and a few similar groups of twos emerged from the sun-house in the background.

The conversation became more general, more varied, more meaningless—

Then there were those who knew a little more and were less confident.

Such as the one-armed Fran, whose large bulk represented Haven as official delegate, and who lived high in consequence, and cultivated new friendships—with women when he could and with men when he had to.

It was on the sun platform of the hilltop home, of one of these new friends, that he relaxed for the first of what eventually proved to be a total of two times while on Radole. The new friend was Iwo Lyon, a kindred soul of Radole. Iwo’s house was apart from the general cluster, apparently alone in a sea of floral perfume and insect chatter. The sun platform was a grassy strip of lawn set at a forty-five-degree angle, and upon it Fran stretched out and fairly sopped up sun.

He said, “Don’t have anything like this on Haven.”

Iwo replied, sleepily, “Ever seen the cold side? There’s a spot twenty miles from here where the oxygen runs like water.”

“Go on.”

“Fact.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Iwo—In the old days before my arm was chewed off I knocked around, see—and you won’t believe this, but”—The story that followed lasted considerably, and Iwo didn’t believe it.

Iwo said, through yawns, “They don’t make them like in the old days, that’s the truth.”

“No, guess they don’t. Well, now,” Fran fired up, “don’t say that. I told you about my son, didn’t I? He’s one of the old school, if you like. He’ll make a great Trader, blast it. He’s his old man up and down. Up and down, except that he gets married.”

“You mean legal contract? With a girl?”

“That’s right. Don’t see the sense in it myself. They went to Kalgan for their honeymoon.”

“Kalgan? Kalgan? When the Galaxy was this?”

Fran smiled broadly, and said with slow meaning, “Just before the Mule declared war on the Foundation.”

“That so?”

Fran nodded and motioned Iwo closer with his head. He said, hoarsely, “In fact, I can tell you something, if you don’t let it go any further. My boy was sent to Kalgan for a purpose. Now I wouldn’t like to let it out, you know, just what the purpose was, naturally, but you look at the situation now, and I suppose you can make a pretty good guess. In any case, my boy was the man for the job. We Traders needed some sort of ruckus.” He smiled, craftily. “It’s here. I’m not saying how we did it, but—my boy went to Kalgan, and the Mule sent out his ships. My son!”

Iwo was duly impressed. He grew confidential in his turn, “That’s good. You know, they say we’ve got five hundred ships ready to pitch in on our own at the right time.”

Fran said authoritatively, “More than that, maybe. This is real strategy. This is the kind I like.” He clawed loudly at the skin of his abdomen. “But don’t you forget that the Mule is a smart boy, too. What happened at Horleggor worries me.”

“I heard he lost about ten ships.”

“Sure, but he had a hundred more, and the Foundation had to get out. It’s all to the good to have those tyrants beaten, but not as quickly as all that.” He shook his head.

“The question I ask is where does the Mule get his ships? There’s a widespread rumor we’re making them for him.”

“We? The Traders? Haven has the biggest ship factories anywhere in the independent worlds, and we haven’t made one for anyone but ourselves. Do you suppose any world is building a fleet for the Mule on its own, without taking the precaution of united action? That’s a . . . a fairy tale.”

“Well, where does he get them?”

And Fran shrugged, “Makes them himself, I suppose. That worries me, too.”

Fran blinked at the sun and curled his toes about the smooth wood of the polished footrest. Slowly, he fell asleep and the soft burr of his breathing mingled with the insect sibilance.

Lastly, there were the very few who knew considerable and were not confident at all.

Such as Randu, who on the fifth day of the all-Trader convention entered the Central Hall and found the two men he had asked to be there, waiting for him. The five hundred seats were empty—and were going to stay so.

Randu said quickly, almost before he sat down, “We three represent about half the military potential of the Independent Trading Worlds.”

“Yes,” said Mangin of Iss, “my colleague and I have already commented upon the fact.”

“I am ready,” said Randu, “to speak quickly and earnestly. I am not interested in bargaining or subtlety. Our position is radically in the worse.”

“As a result of—” urged Ovall Gri of Mnemon.

“Of developments of the last hour. Please! From the beginning. First, our position is not of our doing, and but doubtfully of our control. Our original dealings were not with the Mule, but with several others; notably the ex-warlord of Kalgan, whom the Mule defeated at a most inconvenient time for us.”

“Yes, but this Mule is a worthy substitute,” said Mangin. “I do not cavil at details.”

“You may when you know all the details.” Randu leaned forward and placed his hands upon the table palms-up in an obvious gesture.