Isaac Asimov - Foundation

“I don’t—Who’s that, now?”

Mallow looked up patiently, and tuned the receiver. The visiplate glowed into the craggy face of the watch sergeant.

“Speak, sergeant.”

The sergeant said, “Pardon, sir. The men have given entry to a Foundation missionary.”

“A what ?” Mallow’s face grew livid.

“A missionary, sir. He’s in need of hospitalization, sir—”

“There’ll be more than one in need of that, sergeant, for this piece of work. Order the men to battle stations.”

Crew’s lounge was almost empty. Five minutes after the order, even the men on the off-shift were at their guns. It was speed that was the great virtue in the anarchic regions of the interstellar space of the Periphery, and it was in speed above all that the crew of a master trader excelled.

Mallow entered slowly, and stared the missionary up and down and around. His eye slid to Lieutenant Tinter, who shifted uneasily to one side and to Watch-Sergeant Demen, whose blank face and stolid figure flanked the other.

The Master Trader turned to Twer and paused thoughtfully. “Well, then, Twer, get the officers here quietly, except for the co-ordinators and the trajectorian. The men are to remain at stations till further orders.”

There was a five-minute hiatus, in which Mallow kicked open the doors to the lavatories, looked behind the bar, pulled the draperies across the thick windows. For half a minute he left the room altogether, and when he returned he was humming abstractedly.

Men filed in. Twer followed, and closed the door silently.

Mallow said quietly, “First, who let this man in without orders from me?”

The watch sergeant stepped forward. Every eye shifted. “Pardon, sir. It was no definite person. It was a sort of mutual agreement. He was one of us, you might say, and these foreigners here—”

Mallow cut him short. “I sympathize with your feelings, sergeant, and understand them. These men, were they under your command?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When this is over, they’re to be confined to individual quarters for a week. You yourself are relieved of all supervisory duties for a similar period. Understood?”

The sergeant’s face never changed, but there was the slightest droop to his shoulders. He said, crisply, “Yes, sir.”

“You may leave. Get to your gun-station.”

The door closed behind him and the babble rose.

Twer broke in. “Why the punishment, Mallow? You know that these Korellians kill captured missionaries.”

“An action against my orders is bad in itself whatever other reasons there may be in its favor. No one was to leave or enter the ship without permission.”

Lieutenant Tinter murmured rebelliously, “Seven days without action. You can’t maintain discipline that way.”

Mallow said icily, “ I can. There’s no merit in discipline under ideal circumstances. I’ll have it in the face of death, or it’s useless. Where’s this missionary? Get him here in front of me.”

The trader sat down, while the scarlet-cloaked figure was carefully brought forward.

“What’s your name, reverend?”

“Eh?” The scarlet-robed figure wheeled towards Mallow, the whole body turning as a unit. His eyes were blankly open and there was a bruise on one temple. He had not spoken, nor, as far as Mallow could tell, moved during all the previous interval.

“Your name, revered one?”

The missionary started to sudden feverish life. His arms went out in an embracing gesture. “My son—my children. May you always be in the protecting arms of the Galactic Spirit.”

Twer stepped forward, eyes troubled, voice husky, “The man’s sick. Take him to bed, somebody. Order him to bed, Mallow, and have him seen to. He’s badly hurt.”

Mallow’s great arm shoved him back. “Don’t interfere, Twer, or I’ll have you out of the room. Your name, revered one?”

The missionary’s hands clasped in sudden supplication, “As you are enlightened men, save me from the heathen.” The words tumbled out. “Save me from these brutes and darkened ones who raven after me and would afflict the Galactic Spirit with their crimes. I am Jord Parma, of the Anacreonian worlds. Educated at the Foundation; the Foundation itself, my children. I am a Priest of the Spirit educated into all the mysteries, who have come here where the inner voice called me.” He was gasping. “I have suffered at the hands of the unenlightened. As you are Children of the Spirit; and in the name of that Spirit, protect me from them.”

A voice broke in upon them, as the emergency alarm box clamored metallically:

“Enemy units in sight! Instruction desired!”

Every eye shot mechanically upward to the speaker.

Mallow swore violently. He clicked open the reverse and yelled, “Maintain vigil! That is all!” and turned it off.

He made his way to the thick drapes that rustled aside at a touch and stared grimly out.

Enemy units! Several thousands of them in the persons of the individual members of a Korellian mob. The rolling rabble encompassed the pod from extreme end to extreme end, and in the cold, hard light of magnesium flares the foremost straggled closer.

“Tinter!” The trader never turned, but the back of his neck was red. “Get the outer speaker working and find out what they want. Ask if they have a representative of the law with them. Make no promises and no threats, or I’ll kill you.”

Tinter turned and left.

Mallow felt a rough hand on his shoulder and he struck it aside. It was Twer. His voice was an angry hiss in his ear. “Mallow, you’re bound to hold onto this man. There’s no way of maintaining decency and honor otherwise. He’s of the Foundation and, after all, he— is a priest. These savages outside—Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Twer.” Mallow’s voice was incisive. “I’ve got more to do here than guard missionaries. I’ll do, sir, what I please, and, by Seldon and all the Galaxy, if you try to stop me, I’ll tear out your stinking windpipe. Don’t get in my way, Twer, or it will be the last of you.”

He turned and strode past. “You! Revered Parma! Did you know that, by convention, no Foundation missionaries may enter the Korellian territory?”

The missionary was trembling. “I can but go where the Spirit leads, my son. If the darkened ones refuse enlightenment, is it not the greater sign of their need for it?”

“That’s outside the question, revered one. You are here against the law of both Korell and the Foundation. I cannot in law protect you.”

The missionary’s hands were raised again. His earlier bewilderment was gone. There was the raucous clamor of the ship’s outer communication system in action, and the faint, undulating gabble of the angry horde in response. The sound made his eyes wild.

“You hear them? Why do you talk of law to me, of a law made by men? There are higher laws. Was it not the Galactic Spirit that said: Thou shalt not stand idly by to the hurt of thy fellowman. And has he not said: Even as thou dealest with the humble and defenseless, thus shalt thou be dealt with.

“Have you not guns? Have you not a ship? And behind you is there not the Foundation? And above and all about you is there not the Spirit that rules the universe?” He paused for breath.

And then the great outer voice of the Far Star ceased and Lieutenant Tinter was back, troubled.

“Speak!” said Mallow, shortly.

“Sir, they demand the person of Jord Parma.”

“If not?”

“There are various threats, sir. It is difficult to make much out. There are so many—and they seem quite mad. There is someone who says he governs the district and has police powers, but he is quite evidently not his own master.”