Second Foundation. Айзек Азимов
in profile, outlined by the blazing glory of the starlight with which it was filled.
‘Follow “The Mouth,”’ said Channis, ‘Follow “The Mouth” towards the gullet as it narrows down to a thin, splintering line of light.’
Again the screen expanded a trifle, until the Nebula stretched away from ‘The Mouth’ to block off all the screen but that narrow trickle and Channis’ finger silently followed it down, to where it straggled to a halt, and then, as his finger continued moving onward, to a spot where one single star sparked lonesomely, and there his finger halted, for beyond that was blackness, unrelieved.
‘“Star’s End,”’ said the young man, simply. ‘The fabric of the Nebula is thin there and the light of that one star finds its way through in just that one direction – to shine on Trantor.’
‘You’re trying to tell me that—’ the voice of the Mule’s general died in suspicion.
‘I’m not trying. That is Tazenda – Star’s End.’
The lights went on. The Lens flicked off. Pritcher reached Channis in three long strides, ‘What made you think of this?’
And Channis leaned back in his chair with a queerly puzzled expression on his face. ‘It was accidental. I’d like to take intellectual credit for this, but it was only accidental. In any case, however it happens, it fits. According to our references, Tazenda is an oligarchy. It rules twenty-seven inhabited planets. It is not advanced scientifically. And most of all, it is an obscure world that has adhered to a strict neutrality in the local politics of that stellar region, and is not expansionist. I think we ought to see it.’
‘Have you informed the Mule of this?’
‘No. Nor shall we. We’re in space now, about to make the first hop.’
Pritcher, in sudden horror, sprang to the visiplate. Cold space met his eyes when he adjusted it. He gazed fixedly at the view, then turned. Automatically, his hand reached for the hard, comfortable curve of the butt of his blaster.
‘By whose order?’
‘By my order, general’ – it was the first time Channis had ever used the other’s title – ‘while I was engaging you here. You probably felt no acceleration, because it came at the moment I was expanding the field of the Lens and you undoubtedly imagined it to be an illusion of the apparent star motion.’
‘Why— Just what are you doing? What was the point of your nonsense about Tazenda, then?’
‘That was no nonsense. I was completely serious. We’re going there. We left today because we were scheduled to leave three days from now. General, you don’t believe there is a Second Foundation, and I do. You are merely following the Mule’s orders without faith; I recognize a serious danger. The Second Foundation has now had five years to prepare. How they’ve prepared, I don’t know, but what if they have agents on Kalgan. If I carry about in my mind the knowledge of the whereabouts of the Second Foundation, they may discover that. My life might be no longer safe, and I have a great affection for my life. Even on a thin and remote possibility such as that, I would rather play safe. So no one knows of Tazenda but you, and you found out only after we were out in space. And even so, there is the question of the crew.’ Channis was smiling again, ironically, in obviously complete control of the situation.
Pritcher’s hand fell away from his blaster, and for a moment a vague discomfort pierced him. What kept him from action? What deadened him? There was a time when he was a rebellious and unpromoted captain of the First Foundation’s commercial empire, when it would have been himself rather than Channis who would have taken prompt and daring action such as that. Was the Mule right? Was his controlled mind so concerned with obedience as to lose initiative? He felt a thickening despondency drive him down into a strange lassitude.
He said, ‘Well done! However, you will consult me in the future before making decisions of this nature.’
The flickering signal caught his attention.
‘That’s the engine room,’ said Channis, casually. ‘They warmed up on five minutes’ notice and I asked them to let me know if there was any trouble. Want to hold the fort?’
Pritcher nodded mutely, and cogitated in the sudden loneliness on the evils of approaching fifty. The visiplate was sparsely starred. The main body of the Galaxy misted one end. What if he were free of the Mule’s influence—
But he recoiled in horror at the thought.
Chief Engineer Huxlani looked sharply at the young, ununiformed man who carried himself with the assurance of a Fleet officer and seemed to be in a position of authority. Huxlani, as a regular Fleet man from the days his chin had dripped milk, generally confused authority with specific insignia.
But the Mule had appointed this man, and the Mule was, of course, the last word. The only word for that matter. Not even sub-consciously did he question that. Emotional control went deep.
He handed Channis the little oval object without a word.
Channis lifted it, and smiled engagingly.
‘You’re a Foundation man, aren’t you, chief?’
‘Yes, sir. I served in the Foundation Fleet eighteen years before the First Citizen took over.’
‘Foundation training in engineering?’
‘Qualified Technician, First Class – Central School on Anacreon.’
‘Good enough. And you found this on the communication circuit, where I asked you to look?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Does it belong there?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘A hypertracer, sir.’
‘That’s not enough. I’m not a Foundation man. What is it?’
‘It’s a device to allow the ship to be traced through hyperspace.’
‘In other words we can be followed anywhere.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right. It’s a recent invention, isn’t it? It was developed by one of the Research Institutes set up by the First Citizen, wasn’t it?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘And its workings are a government secret. Right?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘Yet here it is. Intriguing.’
Channis tossed the hypertracer methodically from hand to hand for a few seconds. Then, sharply, he held it out, ‘Take it, then, and put it back exactly where you found it and exactly how you found it. Understand? And then forget this incident. Entirely!’
The chief choked down his near-automatic salute, turned sharply and left.
The ship bounded through the Galaxy, its path a wide-spaced dotted line through the stars. The dots, referred to, were the scant stretches of ten to sixty light-seconds spent in normal space and between them stretched the hundred-and-up light-year gaps that represented the ‘hops’ through hyperspace.
Bail Channis sat at the control panel of the Lens and felt again the involuntary surge of near-worship at the contemplation of it. He was not a Foundation man and the interplay of forces at the twist of a knob or the breaking of a contact was not second nature to him.
Not that the Lens ought quite to bore even a Foundation man. Within its unbelievably compact body were enough electronic circuits to pinpoint accurately a hundred million separate stars in exact relationship to each other. And as if that were not a feat in itself, it was further capable of translating any given portion of the Galactic Field along any of the three spatial axes or to rotate any portion of the Field about a centre.
It was because