Secound Foundation Read online

  “May I see?” she asked, when it was over, holding out her hand.

  Dr. Darell said, “You would not understand, Arcadia. Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”

  “Yes, father,” she said, demurely. “Good night, all.”

  She ran up the stairs and plumped into bed with a minimum of basic preparation. With Olynthus’ sound-receiver propped beside her pillow, she felt like a character out of a book-film, and hugged every moment of it close to her chest in an ecstasy of “spystuff.”

  The first words she heard were Anthor’s and they were: “The analyses, gentlemen, are all satisfactory. The child’s as well.”

  Child, she thought disgustedly, and bristled at Anthor in the darkness.

  Anthor had opened his briefcase now, and out of it, he took several dozen brainwave records. They were not originals. Nor had the briefcase been fitted with an ordinary lock. Had the key been held in any hand other than his own, the contents thereof would have silently and instantly oxidized to an indecipherable ash. Once removed from the briefcase, the records did so anyway after half an hour.

  But during their short lifetime, Anthor spoke quickly. “I have the records here of several minor government officials, at Anacreon. This is a psychologist at Locris University; this an industrialist at Siwenna. The rest are as you see.”

  They crowded closely. To all but Darell, they were so many quivers on parchment. To Darell, they shouted with a million tongues.

  Anthor pointed lightly, “I call your attention, Dr. Darell, to the plateau region among the secondary Tauian waves in the frontal lobe, which is what all these records have in common. Would you use my Analytical Rule, sir, to check my statement?”

  The Analytical Rule might be considered a distant relation—as a skyscraper is to a shack—of that kindergarten toy, the logarithmic Slide Rule. Darell used it with the wrist flip of long practice. He made freehand drawings of the result and, as Anthor stated, there were featureless plateaus in frontal lobe regions where strong swings should have been expected.

  “How would you interpret that, Dr. Darell?” asked Anthor.

  “I’m not sure. Offhand, I don’t see how it’s possible. Even in cases of amnesia, there is suppression, but not removal. Drastic brain surgery, perhaps?”

  “Oh, something’s been cut out,” cried Anthor, impatiently, “yes! Not in the physical sense, however. You know, the Mule could have done just that. He could have suppressed completely all capacity for a certain emotion or attitude of mind, and leave nothing but just such a flatness. Or else—”

  “Or else the Second Foundation could have done it. Is that it?” asked Turbor, with a slow smile.

  There was no real need to answer that thoroughly rhetorical question.

  “What made you suspicious, Mr. Anthor?” asked Munn.

  “It wasn’t I. It was Dr. Kleise. He collected brainwave patterns, much as the Planetary Police do, but along different lines. He specialized in intellectuals, government officials, and business leaders. You see, it’s quite obvious that if the Second Foundation is directing the historical course of the Galaxy—of us—that they must do it subtly and in as minimal a fashion as possible. If they work through minds, as they must, it is the minds of people with influence; culturally, industrially, or politically. And with those he concerned himself.”

  “Yes,” objected Munn, “but is there corroboration? How do these people act—I mean the ones with the plateau? Maybe it’s all a perfectly normal phenomenon.” He looked hopelessly at the others out of his somehow childlike blue eyes, but met no encouraging return.

  “I leave that to Dr. Darell,” said Anthor. “Ask him how many times he’s seen this phenomenon in his general studies, or in reported cases in the literature over the past generation. Then ask him the chances of it being discovered in almost one out of every thousand cases among the categories Dr. Kleise studied.”

  “I suppose that there is no doubt,” said Darell, thoughtfully, “that these are artificial mentalities. They have been tampered with. In a way, I have suspected this—”

  “I know that, Dr. Darell,” said Anthor. “I also know you once worked with Dr. Kleise. I would like to know why you stopped.”

  There wasn’t actually hostility in his question. Perhaps nothing more than caution; but, at any rate, it resulted in a long pause. Darell looked from one to another of his guests, then said brusquely, “Because there was no point to Kleise’s battle. He was competing with an adversary too strong for him. He was detecting what we—he and I—knew he would detect—that we were not our own masters. And I didn’t want to know! I had my self-respect. I liked to think that our Foundation was captain of its collective soul; that our forefathers had not quite fought and died for nothing. I thought it would be most simple to turn my face away as long as I was not quite sure. I didn’t need my position since the government pension awarded to my mother’s family in perpetuity would take care of my uncomplicated needs. My home laboratory would suffice to keep boredom away, and life would someday end— Then Kleise died—”

  Semic showed his teeth and said: “This fellow Kleise; I don’t know him. How did he die?”

  Another cut in: “He died. He thought he would. He told me half a year before that he was getting too close—”

  “Now we’re too c . . . close, too, aren’t we?” suggested Munn, dry-mouthed, as his Adam’s apple jiggled.

  “Yes,” said Anthor, flatly, “but we were, anyway—all of us. It’s why you’ve all been chosen. I’m Kleise’s student. Dr. Darell was his colleague. Jole Turbor has been denouncing our blind faith in the saving hand of the Second Foundation on the air, until the government shut him off—through the agency, I might mention, of a powerful financier whose brain shows what Kleise used to call the Tamper Plateau. Homir Munn has the largest home collection of Muliana—if I may use the phrase to signify collected data concerning the Mule—in existence, and has published some papers containing speculation on the nature and function of the Second Foundation. Dr. Semic has contributed as much as anyone to the mathematics of encephalographic analysis, though I don’t believe he realized that his mathematics could be so applied.”

  Semic opened his eyes wide and chuckled gaspingly, “No, young fellow. I was analyzing intranuclear motions—the n-body problem, you know. I’m lost in encephalography.”

  “Then we know where we stand. The government can, of course, do nothing about the matter. Whether the mayor or anyone in his administration is aware of the seriousness of the situation, I don’t know. But this I do know—we five have nothing to lose and stand to gain much. With every increase in our knowledge, we can widen ourselves in safe directions. We are but a beginning, you understand.”

  “How widespread,” put in Turbor, “is this Second Foundation infiltration?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a flat answer. All the infiltrations we have discovered were on the outer fringes of the nation. The capital world may yet be clean, though even that is not certain—else I would not have tested you. You were particularly suspect, Dr. Darell, since you abandoned research with Kleise. Kleise never forgave you, you know. I thought that perhaps the Second Foundation had corrupted you, but Kleise always insisted that you were a coward. You’ll forgive me, Dr. Darell, if I explain this to make my own position clear. I, personally, think I understand your attitude, and, if it was cowardice, I consider it venial.”

  Darell drew a breath before replying. “I ran away! Call it what you wish. I tried to maintain our friendship, however, yet he never wrote nor called me until the day he sent me your brain-wave data, and that was scarcely a week before he died—”

  “If you don’t mind,” interrupted Homir Munn, with a flash of nervous eloquence, “I d . . . don’t see what you think you’re doing. We’re a p . . . poor bunch of conspirators, if we’re just going to talk and talk and t . . . talk. And I don’t see what else we can do, anyway. This is v . . . very childish. B . . . brainwaves and mumbo jumbo and all that. Is there just one thing
you intend to do?”

  Pelleas Anthor’s eyes were bright, “Yes, there is. We need more information on the Second Foundation. It’s the prime necessity. The Mule spent the first five years of his rule in just that quest for information and failed—or so we have all been led to believe. But then he stopped looking. Why? Because he failed? Or because he succeeded?”

  “M . . . more talk,” said Munn, bitterly. “How are we ever to know?”

  “If you’ll listen to me— The Mule’s capital was on Kalgan. Kalgan was not part of the Foundation’s commercial sphere of influence before the Mule and it is not part of it now. Kalgan is ruled, at the moment, by the man Stettin, unless there’s another palace revolution by tomorrow. Stettin calls himself First Citizen and considers himself the successor of the Mule. If there is any tradition in that world, it rests with the super-humanity and greatness of the Mule—a tradition almost superstitious in intensity. As a result, the Mule’s old palace is maintained as a shrine. No unauthorized person may enter; nothing within has ever been touched.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, why is that so? At times like these, nothing happens without a reason. What if it is not superstition only that makes the Mule’s palace inviolate? What if the Second Foundation has so arranged matters? In short, what if the results of the Mule’s five-year search are within—”

  “Oh, p . . . poppycock.”

  “Why not?” demanded Anthor. “Throughout its history the Second Foundation has hidden itself and interfered in Galactic affairs in minimal fashion only. I know that to us it would seem more logical to destroy the palace or, at the least, to remove the data. But you must consider the psychology of these master psychologists. They are Seldons; they are Mules and they work by indirection, through the mind. They would never destroy or remove when they could achieve their ends by creating a state of mind. Eh?”

  No immediate answer, and Anthor continued, “And you, Munn, are just the one to get the information we need.”

  “I?” It was an astounded yell. Munn looked from one to the other rapidly, “I can’t do such a thing. I’m no man of action; no hero of any teleview. I’m a librarian. If I can help you that way, all right, and I’ll risk the Second Foundation, but I’m not going out into space on any qu . . . quixotic thing like that.”

  “Now, look,” said Anthor, patiently, “Dr. Darell and I have both agreed that you’re the man. It’s the only way to do it naturally. You say you’re a librarian. Fine! What is your main field of interest? Muliana! You already have the greatest collection of material on the Mule in the Galaxy. It is natural for you to want more; more natural for you than for anyone else. You could request entrance to the Kalgan Palace without arousing suspicion of ulterior motives. You might be refused but you would not be suspected. What’s more, you have a one-man cruiser. You’re known to have visited foreign planets during your annual vacation. You’ve even been on Kalgan before. Don’t you understand that you need only act as you always have?”

  “But I can’t just say, ‘W . . . won’t you kindly let me into your most sacred shrine, M . . . Mr. First Citizen?’”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, by the Galaxy, he won’t let me!”

  “All right, then. So he won’t. Then you’ll come home and we’ll think of something else.”

  Munn looked about in helpless rebellion. He felt himself being talked into something he hated. No one offered to help him extricate himself.

  So in the end two decisions were made in Dr. Darell’s house. The first was a reluctant one of agreement on the part of Munn to take off into space as soon as his summer vacation began.

  The other was a highly unauthorized decision on the part of a thoroughly unofficial member of the gathering, made as she clicked off a sound-receiver and composed herself for a belated sleep. This second decision does not concern us just yet.

  10

  APPROACHING CRISIS

  A week had passed on the Second Foundation, and the First Speaker was smiling once again upon the Student.

  “You must have brought me interesting results, or you would not be so filled with anger.”

  The Student put his hand upon the sheaf of calculating paper he had brought with him and said, “Are you sure that the problem is a factual one?”

  “The premises are true. I have distorted nothing.”

  “Then I must accept the results, and I do not want to.”

  “Naturally. But what have your wants to do with it? Well, tell me what disturbs you so. No, no, put your derivations to one side. I will subject them to analysis afterward. Meanwhile, talk to me. Let me judge your understanding.”

  “Well, then, Speaker— It becomes very apparent that a gross overall change in the basic psychology of the First Foundation has taken place. As long as they knew of the existence of a Seldon Plan, without knowing any of the details thereof, they were confident but uncertain. They knew they would succeed, but they didn’t know when or how. There was, therefore, a continuous atmosphere of tension and strain—which was what Seldon desired. The First Foundation, in other words, could be counted upon to work at maximum potential.”

  “A doubtful metaphor,” said the First Speaker, “but I understand you.”

  “But now, Speaker, they know of the existence of a Second Foundation in what amounts to detail, rather merely than as an ancient and vague statement of Seldon’s. They have an inkling as to its function as the guardian of the Plan. They know that an agency exists which watches their every step and will not let them fall. So they abandon their purposeful stride and allow themselves to be carried upon a litter. Another metaphor, I’m afraid.”

  “Nevertheless, go on.”

  “And that very abandonment of effort; that growing inertia; that lapse into softness and into a decadent and hedonistic culture, means the ruin of the Plan. They must be self-propelled.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, there is more. The majority reaction is as described. But a great probability exists for a minority reaction. Knowledge of our guardianship and our control will rouse among a few not complacence, but hostility. This follows from Korillov’s Theorem—”

  “Yes, yes. I know the theorem.”

  “I’m sorry, Speaker. It is difficult to avoid mathematics. In any case, the effect is that not only is the Foundation’s effort diluted, but part of it is turned against us, actively against us.”

  “And is that all?”

  “There remains one other factor of which the probability is moderately low—”

  “Very good. What is that?”

  “While the energies of the First Foundation were directed only to Empire; while their only enemies were huge and outmoded hulks that remained from the shambles of the past, they were obviously concerned only with the physical sciences. With us forming a new, large part of their environment, a change in view may well be imposed on them. They may try to become psychologists—”

  “That change,” said the First Speaker, coolly, “has already taken place.”

  The Student’s lips compressed themselves into a pale line. “Then all is over. It is the basic incompatibility with the Plan. Speaker, would I have known of this if I had lived—outside?”

  The First Speaker spoke seriously, “You feel humiliated, my young man, because, thinking you understood so much so well, you suddenly find that many very apparent things were unknown to you. Thinking you were one of the Lords of the Galaxy; you suddenly find that you stand near to destruction. Naturally, you will resent the ivory tower in which you lived; the seclusion in which you were educated; the theories on which you were reared.

  “I once had that feeling. It is normal. Yet it was necessary that in your formative years you have no direct contact with the Galaxy; that you remain here, where all knowledge is filtered to you, and your mind carefully sharpened. We could have shown you this . . . this part-failure of the Plan earlier and spared you the shock now, but you would not have understood the significance properly, as you
now will. Then you find no solution at all to the problem?”

  The Student shook his head and said hopelessly, “None!”

  “Well, it is not surprising. Listen to me, young man. A course of action exists and has been followed for over a decade. It is not a usual course, but one that we have been forced into against our will. It involves low probabilities, dangerous assumptions—We have even been forced to deal with individual reactions at times, because that was the only possible way, and you know that Psychostatistics by its very nature has no meaning when applied to less than planetary numbers.”

  “Are we succeeding?” gasped the Student.

  “There’s no way of telling yet. We have kept the situation stable so far—but for the first time in the history of the Plan, it is possible for the unexpected actions of a single ordinary individual to destroy it. We have adjusted a minimum number of outsiders to a needful state of mind; we have our agents—but their paths are planned. They dare not improvise. That should be obvious to you. And I will not conceal the worst—if we are discovered, here, on this world, it will not only be the Plan that is destroyed, but ourselves, our physical selves. So you see, our solution is not very good.”

  “But the little you have described does not sound like a solution at all, but like a desperate guess.”

  “No. Let us say, an intelligent guess.”

  “When is the crisis, Speaker? When will we know whether we have succeeded or not?”

  “Well within the year, no doubt.”

  The Student considered that, then nodded his head. He shook hands with the Speaker. “Well, it’s good to know.”

  He turned on his heel and left.

  The First Speaker looked out silently as the window gained transparency. Past the giant structures to the quiet, crowding stars.

  A year would pass quickly. Would any of them, any of Seldon’s heritage, be alive at its end?