Isaac Asimov - Foundation and Empire

“Torie.”

“M-m-m?”

“Torie, I was at City Hall today—at the Bureau of Production. That is why I was so late today.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Well . . .” she hesitated, uncertainly. “It’s been building up. I was getting so I couldn’t stand it at the factory. Morale—just doesn’t exist. The girls go on crying jags for no particular reason. Those who don’t get sick become sullen. Even the little mousie types pout. In my particular section, production isn’t a quarter what it was when I came, and there isn’t a day that we have a full roster of workers.”

“All right,” said Toran, “tie in the B. of P. What did you do there?”

“Asked a few questions. And it’s so, Torie, it’s so all over Haven. Dropping production, increasing sedition and disaffection. The bureau chief just shrugged his shoulders—after I had sat in the anteroom an hour to see him, and only got in because I was the coordinator’s niece—and said it was beyond him. Frankly, I don’t think he cared.”

“Now, don’t go off base, Bay.”

“I don’t think he did.” She was strenuously fiery. “I tell you there’s something wrong. It’s that same horrible frustration that hit me in the Time Vault when Seldon deserted us. You felt it yourself.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, it’s back,” she continued savagely. “And we’ll never be able to resist the Mule. Even if we had the material, we lack the heart, the spirit, the will—Torie, there’s no use fighting—”

Bayta had never cried in Toran’s memory, and she did not cry now. Not really. But Toran laid a light hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Suppose you forget it, baby. I know what you mean. But there’s nothing—”

“Yes, there’s nothing we can do! Everyone says that—and we just sit and wait for the knife to come down.”

She returned to what was left of her sandwich and tea. Quietly, Toran was arranging the beds. It was quite dark outside.

Randu, as newly appointed co-ordinator—in itself a wartime post—of the confederation of cities on Haven, had been assigned, at his own request, to an upper room, out of the window of which he could brood over the rooftops and greenery of the city. Now, in the fading of the cave lights, the city receded into the level lack of distinction of the shades. Randu did not care to meditate upon the symbolism.

He said to Ebling Mis—whose clear, little eyes seemed to have no further interest than the red-filled goblet in his hand—“There’s a saying on Haven that when the cave lights go out, it is time for the righteous and hardworking to sleep.”

“Do you sleep much lately?”

“No! Sorry to call you so late, Mis. I like the night better somehow these days. Isn’t that strange? The people on Haven condition themselves pretty strictly on the lack of light meaning sleep. Myself, too. But it’s different now—”

“You’re hiding,” said Mis, flatly. “You’re surrounded by people in the waking period, and you feel their eyes and their hopes on you. You can’t stand up under it. In the sleep period, you’re free.”

“Do you feel it, too, then? This miserable sense of defeat?”

Ebling Mis nodded slowly, “I do. It’s a mass psychosis, an unprintable mob panic. Ga-LAX-y, Randu, what do you expect? Here you have a whole culture brought up to a blind, blubbering belief that a folk hero of the past has everything all planned out and is taking care of every little piece of their unprintable lives. The thought-pattern evoked has religious characteristics, and you know what that means.”

“Not a bit.”

Mis was not enthusiastic about the necessity of explanation. He never was. So he growled, stared at the long cigar he rolled thoughtfully between his fingers, and said, “Characterized by strong faith reactions. Beliefs can’t be shaken short of a major shock, in which case, a fairly complete mental disruption results. Mild cases—hysteria, morbid sense of insecurity. Advanced cases—madness and suicide.”

Randu bit at a thumbnail. “When Seldon fails us, in other words, our prop disappears, and we’ve been leaning upon it so long, our muscles are atrophied to where we cannot stand without it.”

“That’s it. Sort of a clumsy metaphor, but that’s it.”

“And you, Ebling, what of your own muscles?”

The psychologist filtered a long draught of air through his cigar, and let the smoke laze out. “Rusty, but not atrophied. My profession has resulted in just a bit of independent thinking.”

“And you see a way out?”

“No, but there must be one. Maybe Seldon made no provisions for the Mule. Maybe he didn’t guarantee our victory. But, then, neither did he guarantee defeat. He’s just out of the game and we’re on our own. The Mule can be licked.”

“How?”

“By the only way anyone can be licked—by attacking in strength at weakness. See here, Randu, the Mule isn’t a superman. If he is finally defeated, everyone will see that for himself. It’s just that he’s an unknown, and the legends cluster quickly. He’s supposed to be a mutant. Well, what of that? A mutant means a ‘superman’ to the ignoramuses of humanity. Nothing of the sort.

“It’s been estimated that several million mutants are born in the Galaxy every day. Of the several million, all but one or two percent can be detected only by means of microscopes and chemistry. Of the one or two percent macromutants, that is, those with mutations detectable to the naked eye or naked mind, all but one or two percent are freaks, fit for the amusement centers, the laboratories, and death. Of the few macromutants whose differences are to the good, almost all are harmless curiosities, unusual in some single respect, normal—and often subnormal—in most others. You see that, Randu?”

“I do. But what of the Mule?”

“Supposing the Mule to be a mutant then, we can assume that he has some attribute, undoubtedly mental, which can be used to conquer worlds. In other respects, he undoubtedly has his shortcomings, which we must locate. He would not be so secretive, so shy of others’ eyes, if these shortcomings were not apparent and fatal. If he’s a mutant.”

“Is there an alternative?”

“There might be. Evidence for mutation rests on Captain Han Pritcher of what used to be Foundation’s Intelligence. He drew his conclusions from the feeble memories of those who claimed to know the Mule—or somebody who might have been the Mule—in infancy and early childhood. Pritcher worked on slim pickings there, and what evidence he found might easily have been planted by the Mule for his own purposes, for it’s certain that the Mule has been vastly aided by his reputation as a mutant-superman.”

“This is interesting. How long have you thought that?”

“I never thought that, in the sense of believing it. It is merely an alternative to be considered. For instance, Randu, suppose the Mule has discovered a form of radiation capable of depressing mental energy just as he is in possession of one which depresses nuclear reactions. What then, eh? Could that explain what’s hitting us now—and what did hit the Foundation?”

Randu seemed immersed in a near-wordless gloom.

He said, “What of your own researches on the Mule’s clown?”

And now Ebling Mis hesitated. “Useless as yet. I spoke bravely to the mayor previous to the Foundation’s collapse, mainly to keep his courage up—partly to keep my own up as well. But, Randu, if my mathematical tools were up to it, then from the clown alone I could analyze the Mule completely. Then we would have him. Then we could solve the queer anomalies that have impressed me already.”

“Such as?”

“Think, man. The Mule defeated the navies of the Foundation at will, but he has not once managed to force the much weaker fleets of the Independent Traders to retreat in open combat. The Foundation fell at a blow; the Independent Traders hold out against all his strength. He first used Extinguishing Field upon the nuclear weapons of the Independent Traders of Mnemon. The element of surprise lost them that battle but they countered the Field. He was never able to use it successfully against the Independents again.