Isaac Asimov - Foundation and Empire

“Well?”

“Well, do you know that it is very easy to find from them the exact location of the First Foundation, if you know anything at all about psychohistory. It is frequently referred to, when you understand the equations. But, Toran, nobody mentions the Second Foundation. There has been no reference to it anywhere.”

Toran’s eyebrows pulled into a frown. “It doesn’t exist?”

“Of course it exists,” cried Mis, angrily, “who said it didn’t? But there’s less talk of it. Its significance—and all about it—are better hidden, better obscured. Don’t you see? It’s the more important of the two. It’s the critical one; the one that counts! And I’ve got the minutes of the Seldon Convention. The Mule hasn’t won yet—”

Quietly, Bayta turned the lights down. “Go to sleep!”

Without speaking, Toran and Bayta made their way up to their own quarters.

The next day, Ebling Mis bathed and dressed himself, saw the sun of Trantor, and felt the wind of Trantor for the last time. At the end of the day he was once again submerged in the gigantic recesses of the library, and never emerged thereafter.

In the week that followed, life settled again into its groove. The sun of Neotrantor was a calm, bright star in Trantor’s night sky. The farm was busy with its spring planting. The University Grounds were silent in their desertion. The Galaxy seemed empty. The Mule might never have existed.

Bayta was thinking that as she watched Toran light his cigar carefully and look up at the sections of blue sky visible between the swarming metal spires that encircled the horizon.

“It’s a nice day,” he said.

“Yes, it is. Have you everything mentioned on the list, Torie?”

“Sure. Half pound butter, dozen eggs, string beans—Got it all down here, Bay. I’ll have it right.”

“Good. And make sure the vegetables are of the last harvest and not museum relics. Did you see Magnifico anywhere, by the way?”

“Not since breakfast. Guess he’s down with Ebling, watching a book-film.”

“All right. Don’t waste any time, because I’ll need the eggs for dinner.”

Toran left with a backward smile and a wave of the hand.

Bayta turned away as Toran slid out of sight among the maze of metal. She hesitated before the kitchen door, about-faced slowly, and entered the colonnade leading to the elevator that burrowed down into the recesses.

Ebling Mis was there, head bent down over the eyepieces of the projector, motionless, a frozen, questing body. Near him sat Magnifico, screwed up into a chair, eyes sharp and watching—a bundle of slatty limbs with a nose emphasizing his scrawny face.

Bayta said softly, “Magnifico—”

Magnifico scrambled to his feet. His voice was an eager whisper. “My lady!”

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, “Toran has left for the farm and won’t be back for a while. Would you be a good boy and go out after him with a message that I’ll write for you?”

“Gladly, my lady. My small services are but too eagerly yours, for the tiny uses you can put them to.”

She was alone with Ebling Mis, who had not moved. Firmly, she placed her hand upon his shoulder. “Ebling—”

The psychologist started, with a peevish cry, “What is it?” He wrinkled his eyes. “Is it you, Bayta? Where’s Magnifico?”

“I sent him away. I want to be alone with you for a while.” She enunciated her words with exaggerated distinctness. “I want to talk to you, Ebling.”

The psychologist made a move to return to his projector, but her hand on his shoulder was firm. She felt the bone under the sleeve clearly. The flesh seemed to have fairly melted away since their arrival on Trantor. His face was thin, yellowish, and bore a half-week stubble. His shoulders were visibly stooped, even in a sitting position.

Bayta said, “Magnifico isn’t bothering you, is he, Ebling? He seems to be down here night and day.”

“No, no, no! Not at all. Why, I don’t mind him. He is silent and never disturbs me. Sometimes he carries the films back and forth for me; seems to know what I want without my speaking. Just let him be.”

“Very well—but, Ebling, doesn’t he make you wonder? Do you hear me, Ebling? Doesn’t he make you wonder?”

She jerked a chair close to his and stared at him as though to pull the answer out of his eyes.

Ebling Mis shook his head. “No. What do you mean?”

“I mean that Colonel Pritcher and you both say the Mule can condition the emotions of human beings. But are you sure of it? Isn’t Magnifico himself a flaw in the theory?”

There was silence.

Bayta repressed a strong desire to shake the psychologist. “What’s wrong with you, Ebling? Magnifico was the Mule’s clown. Why wasn’t he conditioned to love and faith? Why should he, of all those in contact with the Mule, hate him so?”

“But . . . but he was conditioned. Certainly, Bay!” He seemed to gather certainty as he spoke. “Do you suppose that the Mule treats his clown the way he treats his generals? He needs faith and loyalty in the latter, but in his clown he needs only fear. Didn’t you ever notice that Magnifico’s continual state of panic is pathological in nature? Do you suppose it is natural for a human being to be as frightened as that all the time? Fear to such an extent becomes comic. It was probably comic to the Mule—and helpful, too, since it obscured what help we might have gotten earlier from Magnifico.”

Bayta said, “You mean Magnifico’s information about the Mule was false?”

“It was misleading. It was colored by pathological fear. The Mule is not the physical giant Magnifico thinks. He is more probably an ordinary man outside his mental powers. But if it amused him to appear a superman to poor Magnifico—” The psychologist shrugged. “In any case, Magnifico’s information is no longer of importance.”

“What is, then?”

But Mis shook himself loose and returned to his projector.

“What is, then?” she repeated. “The Second Foundation?”

The psychologist’s eyes jerked toward her. “Have I told you anything about that? I don’t remember telling you anything. I’m not ready yet. What have I told you?”

“Nothing,” said Bayta, intensely. “Oh, Galaxy, you’ve told me nothing, but I wish you would because I’m deathly tired. When will it be over?”

Ebling Mis peered at her, vaguely rueful, “Well, now, my . . . my dear, I did not mean to hurt you. I forget sometimes . . . who my friends are. Sometimes it seems to me that I must not talk of all this. There’s a need for secrecy—but from the Mule, not from you, my dear.” He patted her shoulder with a weak amiability.

She said, “What about the Second Foundation?”

His voice was automatically a whisper, thin and sibilant. “Do you know the thoroughness with which Seldon covered his traces? The proceedings of the Seldon Convention would have been of no use to me at all as little as a month ago, before this strange insight came. Even now, it seems—tenuous. The papers put out by the Convention are often apparently unrelated; always obscure. More than once I wondered if the members of the Convention, themselves, knew all that was in Seldon’s mind. Sometimes I think he used the Convention only as a gigantic front, and single-handed erected the structure—”

“Of the Foundations?” urged Bayta.

“Of the Second Foundation! Our Foundation was simple. But the Second Foundation was only a name. It was mentioned, but if there was any elaboration, it was hidden deep in the mathematics. There is still much I don’t even begin to understand, but for seven days, the bits have been clumping together into a vague picture.

“Foundation Number One was a world of physical scientists. It represented a concentration of the dying science of the Galaxy under the conditions necessary to make it live again. No psychologists were included. It was a peculiar distortion, and must have had a purpose. The usual explanation was that Seldon’s psychohistory worked best where the individual working units—human beings—had no knowledge of what was coming, and could therefore react naturally to all situations. Do you follow me, my dear—”