Isaac Asimov - Foundation

And since it was not the first time he had had to travel in absolute secrecy, he again made use of Hardin’s epigram on the uses of the obvious.

He changed into his civilian clothes—a holiday in itself—and boarded a passenger liner to the Foundation, second class. Once at Terminus, he threaded his way through the crowd at the spaceport and called up City Hall at a public visiphone.

He said, “My name is Jan Smite. I have an appointment with the mayor this afternoon.”

The dead-voiced but efficient young lady at the other end made a second connection and exchanged a few rapid words, then said to Verisof in a dry, mechanical tone, “Mayor Hardin will see you in half an hour, sir,” and the screen went blank.

Whereupon the ambassador to Anacreon bought the latest edition of the Terminus City Journal , sauntered casually to City Hall Park and, sitting down on the first empty bench he came to, read the editorial page, sport section and comic sheet while waiting. At the end of half an hour, he tucked the paper under his arm, entered City Hall and presented himself in the anteroom.

In doing all this he remained safely and thoroughly unrecognized, for since he was so entirely obvious, no one gave him a second look.

Hardin looked up at him and grinned. “Have a cigar! How was the trip?”

Verisof helped himself. “Interesting. There was a priest in the next cabin on his way here to take a special course in the preparation of radioactive synthetics—for the treatment of cancer, you know—”

“Surely, he didn’t call it radioactive synthetics, now?”

“I guess not ! It was the Holy Food to him.”

The mayor smiled. “Go on.”

“He inveigled me into a theological discussion and did his level best to elevate me out of sordid materialism.”

“And never recognized his own high priest?”

“Without my crimson robe? Besides, he was a Smyrnian. It was an interesting experience, though. It is remarkable, Hardin, how the religion of science has grabbed hold. I’ve written an essay on the subject—entirely for my own amusement; it wouldn’t do to have it published. Treating the problem sociologically, it would seem that when the old Empire began to rot at the fringes, it could be considered that science, as science, had failed the outer worlds. To be reaccepted it would have to present itself in another guise—and it has done just that. It works out beautifully.”

“Interesting!” The mayor placed his arms around his neck and said suddenly, “Start talking about the situation at Anacreon!”

The ambassador frowned and withdrew the cigar from his mouth. He looked at it distastefully and put it down. “Well, it’s pretty bad.”

“You wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”

“Scarcely. Here’s the position. The key man at Anacreon is the Prince Regent, Wienis. He’s King Lepold’s uncle.”

“I know. But Lepold is coming of age next year, isn’t he? I believe he’ll be sixteen in February.”

“Yes.” Pause, and then a wry addition. “ If he lives. The king’s father died under suspicious circumstances. A needle bullet through the chest during a hunt. It was called an accident.”

“Hmph. I seem to remember Wienis the time I was on Anacreon, when we kicked them off Terminus. It was before your time. Let’s see now. If I remember, he was a dark young fellow, black hair and a squint in his right eye. He had a funny hook in his nose.”

“Same fellow. The hook and the squint are still there, but his hair’s gray now. He plays the game dirty. Luckily, he’s the most egregious fool on the planet. Fancies himself as a shrewd devil, too, which makes his folly the more transparent.”

“That’s usually the way.”

“His notion of cracking an egg is to shoot a nuclear blast at it. Witness the tax on Temple property he tried to impose just after the old king died two years ago. Remember?”

Hardin nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. “The priests raised a howl.”

“They raised one you could hear way out to Lucreza. He’s shown more caution in dealing with the priesthood since, but he still manages to do things the hard way. In a way, it’s unfortunate for us; he has unlimited self-confidence.”

“Probably an over-compensated inferiority complex. Younger sons of royalty get that way, you know.”

“But it amounts to the same thing. He’s foaming at the mouth with eagerness to attack the Foundation. He scarcely troubles to conceal it. And he’s in a position to do it, too, from the standpoint of armament. The old king built up a magnificent navy, and Wienis hasn’t been sleeping the last two years. In fact, the tax on Temple property was originally intended for further armament, and when that fell through he increased the income tax twice.”

“Any grumbling at that?”

“None of serious importance. Obedience to appointed authority was the text of every sermon in the kingdom for weeks. Not that Wienis showed any gratitude.”

“All right. I’ve got the background. Now what’s happened?”

“Two weeks ago an Anacreonian merchant ship came across a derelict battle cruiser of the old Imperial Navy. It must have been drifting in space for at least three centuries.”

Interest flickered in Hardin’s eyes. He sat up. “Yes, I’ve heard of that. The Board of Navigation has sent me a petition asking me to obtain the ship for purposes of study. It is in good condition, I understand.”

“In entirely too good condition,” responded Verisof, dryly. “When Wienis received your suggestion last week that he turn the ship over to the Foundation, he almost had convulsions.”

“He hasn’t answered yet.”

“He won’t—except with guns, or so he thinks. You see, he came to me on the day I left Anacreon and requested that the Foundation put this battle cruiser into fighting order and turn it over to the Anacreonian navy. He had the infernal gall to say that your note of last week indicated a plan of the Foundation’s to attack Anacreon. He said that refusal to repair the battle cruiser would confirm his suspicions; and indicated that measures for the self-defense of Anacreon would be forced upon him. Those are his words. Forced upon him! And that’s why I’m here.”

Hardin laughed gently.

Verisof smiled and continued, “Of course, he expects a refusal, and it would be a perfect excuse—in his eyes—for immediate attack.”

“I see that, Verisof. Well, we have at least six months to spare, so have the ship fixed up and present it with my compliments. Have it renamed the Wienis as a mark of our esteem and affection.”

He laughed again.

And again Verisof responded with the faintest trace of a smile, “I suppose it’s the logical step, Hardin—but I’m worried.”

“What about?”

“It’s a ship ! They could build in those days. Its cubic capacity is half again that of the entire Anacreonian navy. It’s got nuclear blasts capable of blowing up a planet, and a shield that could take a Q-beam without working up radiation. Too much of a good thing, Hardin—”

“Superficial, Verisof, superficial. You and I both know that the armament he now has could defeat Terminus handily, long before we could repair the cruiser for our own use. What does it matter, then, if we give him the cruiser as well? You know it won’t ever come to actual war.”

“I suppose so. Yes.” The ambassador looked up. “But Hardin—”

“Well? Why do you stop? Go ahead.”

“Look. This isn’t my province. But I’ve been reading the paper.” He placed the Journal on the desk and indicated the front page. “What’s this all about?”

Hardin dropped a casual glance. “ ‘A group of Councilmen are forming a new political party.’ ”