ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA. ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

There is nothing, never has been anything, quite like a busy spaceport on the outskirts of a capital city of a populous planet. There are the huge machines resting mightily in their cradles. If you choose your time properly, there is the impressive sight of the sinking giant dropping to rest or, more hair-raising still, the swiftening departure of a bubble of steel. All processes involved are nearly noiseless. The motive power is the silent surge of nucleons shifting into more compact arrangements

In terms of area, ninety-five percent of the port has just been referred to. Square miles are reserved for the machines, and for the men who serve them and for the calculators that serve both.

Only five percent of the port is given over to the floods of humanity to whom it is the way station to all the stars of the Galaxy. It is certain that very few of the anonymous many-headed stop to consider the technological mesh that knits the spaceways. Perhaps some of them might itch occasionally at the thought of the thousands of tons represented by the sinking steel that looks so small off in the distance. One of those cyclopean cylinders could, conceivably, miss the guiding beam and crash half a mile from its expected landing point—through the glassite roof of the immense waiting room perhaps—so that only a thin organic vapor and some powdered phosphates would be left behind to mark the passing of a thousand men.

It could never happen, however, with the safety devices in use; and only the badly neurotic would consider the possibility for more than a moment.

Then what do they think about? It is not just a crowd, you see. It is a crowd with a purpose. That purpose hovers over the field and thickens the atmosphere. Lines queue up; parents herd their children; baggage is maneuvered in precise masses—people are going somewheres.

Consider then the complete psychic isolation of a single unit of this terribly intent mob that does not know where to go; yet at the same time feels more intensely than any of the others possibly can, the necessity of going somewheres; anywhere! Or almost anywhere!

Even lacking telepathy or any of the crudely definite methods of mind touching mind, there is a sufficient clash in atmosphere, in intangible mood, to suffice for despair.

To suffice? To overflow, and drench, and drown.

Arcadia Darell, dressed in borrowed clothes, standing on a borrowed planet in a borrowed situation of what seemed even to be a borrowed life, wanted earnestly the safety of the womb. She didn't know that was what she wanted. She only knew that the very openness of the open world was a great danger. She wanted a closed spot somewhere—somewhere far—somewhere in an unexplored nook of the universe—where no one would ever look.

And there she was, age fourteen plus, weary enough for eighty plus, frightened enough for five minus.

What stranger of the hundreds that brushed past her—actually brushed past her, so that she could feel their touch—was a Second Foundationer? What stranger could not help but instantly destroy her for her guilty knowledge—her unique knowledge—of knowing where the Second Foundation was?

And the voice that cut in on her was a thunderclap that iced the scream in her throat into a voiceless slash.

“Look, miss, ” it said, irritably, “are you using the ticket machine or are you just standing there? ”

It was the first she realized that she was standing in front of a ticket machine. You put a high denomination bill into the clipper which sank out of sight. You pressed the button below your destination and a ticket came out together with the correct change as determined by an electronic scanning device that never made a mistake. It was a very ordinary thing and there is no cause for anyone to stand before it for five minutes.

Arcadia plunged a two-hundred credit into the clipper, and was suddenly aware of the button labeled “Trantor. ” Trantor, dead capital of the dead Empire—the planet on which she was born. She pressed it in a dream. Nothing happened, except that the red letters flicked on and off, reading 172. 18–172. 18–172. 18—

It was the amount she was short. Another two-hundred credit. The ticket was spit out towards her. It came loose when she touched it, and the change tumbled out afterward.

She seized it and ran. She felt the man behind her pressing close, anxious for his own chance at the machine, but she twisted out from before him and did not look behind.

Yet there was nowhere to run. They were all her enemies.

Without quite realizing it, she was watching the gigantic, glowing signs that puffed into the air: Steffani, Anacreon, FermusThere was even one that ballooned, Terminus, and she longed for it, but did not dare—

For a trifling sum, she could have hired a notifier which could have been set for any destination she cared and which would, when placed in her purse, make itself heard only to her, fifteen minutes before take-off time. But such devices are for people who are reasonably secure, however; who can pause to think of them.

And then, attempting to look both ways simultaneously, she ran head-on into a soft abdomen. She felt the startled outbreath and grunt, and a hand come down on her arm. She writhed desperately but lacked breath to do more than mew a bit in the back of her throat.

Her captor held her firmly and waited. Slowly, he came into focus for her and she managed to look at him. He was rather plump and rather short. His hair was white and copious, being brushed back to give a pompadour effect that looked strangely incongruous above a round and ruddy face that shrieked its peasant origin.

“What's the matter? ” he said finally, with a frank and twinkling curiosity. “You look scared. ”

“Sorry, ” muttered Arcadia in a frenzy. “I've got to go. Pardon me. ”

But he disregarded that entirely, and said, “Watch out, little girl. You'll drop your ticket. ” And he lifted it from her resistless white fingers and looked at it with every evidence of satisfaction.

“I thought so, ” he said, and then bawled in bull-like tones, “Mommuh! ”

A woman was instantly at his side, somewhat more short, somewhat more round, somewhat more ruddy. She wound a finger about a stray gray lock to shove it beneath a well-outmoded hat.

“Pappa, ” she said, reprovingly, “why do you shout in a crowd like that? People look at you like you were crazy. Do you think you are on the farm? ”

And she smiled sunnily at the unresponsive Arcadia, and added, “He has manners like a bear. ” Then, sharply, “Pappa, let go the little girl. What are you doing? ”

But Pappa simply waved the ticket at her. “Look, ” he said, “she's going to Trantor. ”

Mamma's face was a sudden beam, “You're from Trantor? Let go her arm, I say, Pappa. ” She turned the overstuffed valise she was carrying onto its side and forced Arcadia to sit down with a gentle but unrelenting pressure. “Sit down, ” she said, “and rest your little feet. It will be no ship yet for an hour and the benches are crowded with sleeping loafers. You are from Trantor? ”

Arcadia drew a deep breath and gave in. Huskily, she said, “I was born there. ”

And Mamma clapped her hands gleefully, “One month we've been here and till now we met nobody from home. This is very nice. Your parents—” she looked about vaguely.

“I'm not with my parents, ” Arcadia said, carefully.

“All alone? A little girl like you? ” Mamma was at once a blend of indignation and sympathy, “How does that come to be? ”

“Mamma, ” Pappa plucked at her sleeve, “let me tell you. There's something wrong. I think she's frightened. ” His voice, though obviously intended for a whisper was quite plainly audible to Arcadia. “She was running—I was watching her—and not looking where she was going. Before I could step out of the way, she bumped into me. And you know what? I think she's in trouble. ”

“So shut your mouth, Pappa. Into you, anybody could bump. ” But she joined Arcadia on the valise, which creaked wearily under the added weight and put an arm about the girl's trembling shoulder. “You're running away from somebody, sweetheart? Don't be afraid to tell me. III help you. ”

Arcadia looked across at the kind gray eyes of the woman and felt her lips quivering. One part of her brain was telling her that here were people from Trantor, with whom she could go, who could help her remain on that planet until she could decide what next to do, where next to go. And another part of her brain, much the louder, was telling her in jumbled incoherence that she did not remember her mother, that she was weary to death of fighting the universe, that she wanted only to curl into a little hall with strong, gentle arms about her, that if her mother had lived, she might... she might—

And for the first time that night, she was crying; crying like a little baby, and glad of it; clutching tightly at the old-fashioned dress and dampening a corner of it thoroughly, while soft arms held her closely and a gentle hand stroked her curls.

Pappa stood helplessly looking at the pair, fumbling futilely for a handkerchief which, when produced, was snatched from his hand. Mamma glared an admonition of quietness at him. The crowds surged about the little group with the true indifference of disconnected crowds everywhere. They were effectively alone.

Finally, the weeping trickled to a halt, and Arcadia smiled weakly as she dabbed at red eyes with the borrowed handkerchief. “Golly, ” she whispered,

“Shh. Shh. Don't talk, ” said Mamma, fussily, “just sit and rest for a while. Catch your breath. Then tell us what's wrong, and you'll see, we'll fix it up, and everything will be all right. ”

Arcadia scrabbled what remained of her wits together. She could not tell them the truth. She could tell nobody the truthAnd yet she was too worn to invent a useful lie.

She said, whisperingly, “I'm better, now. ”

“Good, ” said Mamma. “Now tell me why you're in trouble. You did nothing wrong? Of course, whatever you did, well help you; but tell us the truth. ”

“For a friend from Trantor, anything, ” added Pappa, expansively, “eh, Mamma? ”

“Shut your mouth, Pappa, ” was the response, without rancor.

Arcadia was groping in her purse. That, at least, was still hers, despite the rapid clothes-changing forced upon her in Lady Callia's apartments. She found what she was looking for and handed it to Mamma.

“These are my papers, ” she said, diffidently. It was shiny, synthetic parchment which had been issued her by the Foundation's ambassador on the day of her arrival and which had been countersigned by the appropriate Kalganian official. It was large, florid, and impressive. Mamma looked at it helplessly, and passed it to Pappa who absorbed its contents with an impressive pursing of the lips.

He said, “You're from the Foundation? ”

“Yes. But I was born in Trantor. See it says that—”

“Ah-hah. It looks all right to me. You're named Arcadia, eh? That's a good Trantorian name. But where's your uncle? It says here you came in the company of Homir Munn, uncle. ”

“He's been arrested, ” said Arcadia, drearily.

“Arrested! ”—from the two of them at once. “What for? ” asked Mamma. “He did something? ”

She shook her head. “I don't know. We were just on a visit. Uncle Homir had business with Lord Stettin but—” She needed no effort to act a shudder. It was there.

Pappa was impressed. “With Lord Stettin. Mm-m-m, your uncle must be a big man. ”

“I don't know what it was all about, but Lord Stettin wanted me to stay—” She was recalling the last words of Lady Callia, which had been acted out for her benefit. Since Callia, as she now knew, was an expert, the story could do for a second time.

She paused, and Mamma said interestedly, “And why you? ”

“I'm not sure. He... he wanted to have dinner with me all alone, but I said no, because I wanted Uncle Homir along. He looked at me funny and kept holding my shoulder. ”

Pappa's mouth was a little open, but Mamma was suddenly red and angry. “How old are you, Arcadia? ”

“Fourteen and a half, almost. ”

Mamma drew a sharp breath and said, “That such people should be let live. The dogs in the streets are better. You're running from him, dear, is not? ”

Arcadia nodded.

Mamma said, “Pappa, go right to Information and find out exactly when the ship to Trantor comes to berth. Hurry! ”

But Pappa took one step and stopped. Loud metallic words were booming overhead, and five thousand pairs of eyes looked startledly upwards.

“Men and women, ” it said, with sharp force. “The airport is being searched for a dangerous fugitive, and it is now surrounded. No one can enter and no one can leave. The search will, however, be conducted with great speed and no ships will reach or leave berth during the interval, so you will not miss your ship. I repeat, no one will miss his ship. The grid will descend. None of you will move outside your square until the grid is removed, as otherwise we will be forced to use our neuronic whips. ”

During the minute or less in which the voice dominated the vast dome of the spaceport's waiting room, Arcadia could not have moved if all the evil in the Galaxy had concentrated itself into a ball and hurled itself at her.

They could mean only her. It was not even necessary to formulate that idea as a specific thought. But why—

Callia had engineered her escape. And Callia was of the Second Foundation. Why, then, the search now? Had Callia failed? Could Callia fail? Or was this part of the plan, the intricacies of which escaped her?

For a vertiginous moment, she wanted to jump up and shout that she gave up, that she would go with them, that... that—

But Mamma's hand was on her wrist. “Quick! “Quick! Well go to the lady's room before they start. ”

Arcadia did not understand. She merely followed blindly. They oozed through the crowd, frozen as it was into clumps, with the voice still booming through its last words.

The grid was descending now, and Pappa, openmouthed, watched it come down. He had heard of it and read of it, but had never actually been the object of it. It glimmered in the air, simply a series of cross-hatched and tight radiation-beams that set the air aglow in a harmless network of flashing light.

It always was so arranged as to descend slowly from above in order that it might represent a falling net with all the terrific psychological implications of entrapment.

It was at waist-level now, ten feet between glowing lines in each direction. In his own hundred square feet, Pappa found himself alone, yet the adjoining squares were crowded. He felt himself conspicuously isolated but knew that to move into the greater anonymity of a group would have meant crossing one of those glowing lines, stirring an alarm, and bringing down the neuronic whip.

He waited.

He could make out over the heads of the eerily quiet and waiting mob, the far-off stir that was the line of policemen covering the vast floor area, lighted square by lighted square.

It was a long time before a uniform stepped into his square and carefully noted its co-ordinates into an official notebook.

“Papers! ”

Pappa handed them over, and they were flipped through in expert fashion.

“You're Preem Palver, native of Trantor, on Kalgan for a month, returning to Trantor. Answer, yes or no. ”

“Yes, yes. ”

“What's your business on Kalgan? ”

“I'm trading representative of our farm co-operative. I've been negotiating terms with the Department of Agriculture on Kalgan.

“Um-m-m. Your wife is with you? Where is she? She is mentioned in your papers. ”

“Please. My wife is in the—” He pointed.

“Hanto, ” roared the policeman. Another uniform joined him.

The first one said, dryly, “Another dame in the can, by the Galaxy. The place must be busting with them. Write down her name. ” He indicated the entry in the papers which gave it.

“Anyone else with you? ”

“My niece. ”

“She's not mentioned in the papers. ”

“She came separately. ”

“Where is she? Never mind, I know. Write down the niece's name, too, Hanto. What's her name? Write down Arcadia Palver. You stay right here, Palver. We'll take care of the women before we leave. ”

Pappa waited interminably. And then, long, long after, Mamma was marching toward him, Arcadia's hand firmly in hers, the two policemen trailing behind her.

They entered Pappa's square, and one said, “Is this noisy old woman your wife? ”

“Yes, sir, ” said Pappa, placatingly.

“Then you'd better tell her she's liable to get into trouble if she talks the way she does to the First Citizen's police. ” He straightened his shoulders angrily. “Is this your niece? ”

“Yes, sir. ”

“I want her papers. ”

Looking straight at her husband, Mamma slightly, but no less firmly, shook her head.

A short pause, and Pappa said with a weak smile, “I don't think I can do that. ”

“What do you mean you can't do that? ” The policeman thrust out a hard palm. “Hand it over. ”

“Diplomatic immunity, ” said Pappa, softly.

“What do you mean? ”

“I said I was trading representative of my farm co-operative. I'm accredited to the Kalganian government as an official foreign representative and my papers prove it. I showed them to you and now I don't want to be bothered any more. ”

For a moment, the policeman was taken aback. “I got to see your papers. It's orders. ”

“You go away, ” broke in Mamma, suddenly. “When we want you, we'll send for you, you... you bum. ”

The policeman's lips tightened. “Keep your eye on them, Hanto. I'll get the lieutenant. ”

“Break a leg! ” called Mamma after him. Someone laughed, and then choked it off suddenly.

The search was approaching its end. The crowd was growing dangerously restless. Forty-five minutes had elapsed since the grid had started falling and that is too long for best effects. Lieutenant Dirige threaded his way hastily, therefore, toward the dense center of the mob.

“Is this the girl? ” he asked wearily. He looked at her and she obviously fitted the description. All this for a child.

He said, “Her papers, if you please? ”

Pappa began, “I have already explained—”

“I know what you have explained, and I'm sorry, ” said the lieutenant, “but I have my orders, and I can't help them. If you care to make a protest later, you may. Meanwhile, if necessary, I must use force. ”

There was a pause, and the lieutenant waited patiently.

Then Pappa said, huskily, “Give me your papers, Arcadia. ”

Arcadia shook her head in panic, but Pappa nodded his head. “Don't be afraid. Give them to me. ”

Helplessly she reached out and let the documents change hands. Pappa fumbled them open and looked carefully through them, then handed them over. The lieutenant in his turn looked through them carefully. For a long moment, he raised his eyes to rest them on Arcadia, and then he closed the booklet with a sharp snap.

“All in order, ” he said. “All right, men. ”

He left, and in two minutes, scarcely more, the grid was gone, and the voice above signified a back-to-normal. The noise of the crowd, suddenly released, rose high.

Arcadia said: “How... how—”

Pappa said, “Sh-h. Don't say a word. Let's better go to the ship. It should be in the berth soon. ”

They were on the ship. They had a private stateroom and a table to themselves in the dining room. Two light-years already separated them from Kalgan, and Arcadia finally dared to broach the subject again.

She said, “But they were after me, Mr. Palver, and they must have had my description and all the details. Why did he let me go? ”

And Pappa smiled broadly over his roast beef. “Well, Arcadia, child, it was easy. When you've been dealing with agents and buyers and competing co-operatives, you learn some of the tricks. I've had twenty years or more to learn them in. You see, child, when the lieutenant opened your papers, he found a five hundred credit bill inside, folded up small. Simple, no? ”

“I'll pay you backHonest, I've got lots of money. ”

“Well, ” Pappa's broad face broke into an embarrassed smile, as he waved it away. “For a country-woman—”

Arcadia desisted. “But what if he'd taken the money and turned me in anyway. And accused me of bribery. ”

“And give up five hundred credits? I know these people better than you do, girl. ”

But Arcadia knew that he did not know people better. Not these people. In her bed that night, she considered carefully, and knew that no bribe would have stopped a police lieutenant in the matter of catching her unless that had been planned. They didn't want to catch her, yet had made every motion of doing so, nevertheless.

Why? To make sure she left? And for Trantor? Were the obtuse and soft-hearted couple she was with now only a pair of tools in the hands of the Second Foundation, as helpless as she herself?

They must be!

Or were they?

It was all so useless. How could she fight them. Whatever she did, it might only be what those terrible omnipotents wanted her to do.

Yet she had to outwit them. Had to. Had to! Had to!!

Beginning of War

For reason or reasons unknown to members of the Galaxy at the time of the era under discussion, Intergalactic Standard Time defines its fundamental unit, the second, as the time in which light travels 299, 776 kilometers. 86, 400 seconds are arbitrarily set equal to one Intergalactic Standard Day; and 365 of these days to one Intergalactic Standard Year.

Why 299, 776? Or 86, 400? Or 365?

Tradition, says the historian, begging the question. Because of certain and various mysterious numerical relationships, say the mystics, cultists, numerologists, metaphysicists. Because the original home-planet of humanity had certain natural periods of rotation and revolution from which those relationships could be derived, say a very few.

No one really knew.

Nevertheless, the date on which the Foundation cruiser, the Hober Mallow met the Kalganian squadron, headed by the Fearless, and, upon refusing to allow a search party to board, was blasted into smoldering wreckage was 185; 11692 G. E. That is, it was the 185th day of the 11, 692nd year of the Galactic Era which dated from the accession of the first Emperor of the traditional Kamble dynasty. It was also 185; 419 A. S. —dating from the birth of Seldon—or 185; 348 Y. F. —dating from the establishment of the Foundation. On Kalgan it was 185; 56 F. C. —dating from the establishment of the First Citizenship by the Mule. In each case, of course, for convenience, the year was so arranged as to yield the same day number regardless of the actual day upon which the era began.

And, in addition, to all the millions of worlds of the Galaxy, there were millions of local times, based on the motions of their own particular heavenly neighbors.

But whichever you choose: 185; 11692–419–348–56—or anything—it was this day which historians later pointed to when they spoke of the start of the Stettinian war.

Yet to Dr. Darell, it was none of these at all. It was simply and quite precisely the thirty-second day since Arcadia had left Terminus.

What it cost Darell to maintain stolidity through these days was not obvious to everyone.

But Elvett Semic thought he could guess. He was an old man and fond of saying that his neuronic sheaths had calcified to the point where his thinking processes were stiff and unwieldy. He invited and almost welcomed the universal underestimation of his decaying powers by being the first to laugh at them. But his eyes were none the less seeing for being faded; his mind none the less experienced and wise, for being no longer agile.

He merely twisted his pinched lips and said, “Why don't you do something about it? ”

The sound was a physical jar to Darell, under which he winced. He said, gruffly, “Where were we? ”

Semic regarded him with grave eyes. “You'd better do something about the girl. ” His sparse, yellow teeth showed in a mouth that was open in inquiry.

But Darell replied coldly, “The question is: Can you get a Symes-Molff Resonator in the range required? ”

Well, I said I could and you weren't listening—”

“I'm sorry, Elvett. It's like this. What we're doing now can be more important to everyone in the Galaxy than the question of whether Arcadia is safe. At least, to everyone but Arcadia and myself, and I'm willing to go along with the majority. How big would the Resonator be? ”

Semic looked doubtful, “I don't know. You can find it somewheres in the catalogues. ”

“About how big. A ton? A pound? A block long? ”

“Oh, I thought you meant exactly. It's a little jigger. ” He indicated the first joint of his thumb. “About that. ”

“All right, can you do something like this? ” He sketched rapidly on the pad he held in his lap, then passed it over to the old physicist, who peered at it doubtfully, then chuckled.

“Y'know, the brain gets calcified when you get as old as I am. What are you trying to do? ”

Darell hesitated. He longed desperately, at the moment, for the physical knowledge locked in the other's brain, so that he need not put his thought into words. But the longing was useless, and he explained.

Semic was shaking his head. “You'd need hyper-relays. The only things that would work fast enough. A thundering lot of them. ”

“But it can be built? ”

“Well, sure. ”

“Can you get all the parts? I mean, without causing comment? In line with your general work. ”

Semic lifted his upper lip. “Can't get fifty hyper-relays? I wouldn't use that many in my whole life. ”

“We're on a defense project, now. Can't you think of something harmless that would use them? We've got the money. ”

“Hm-m-m. Maybe I can think of something. ”

“How small can you make the whole gadget? ”

“Hyper-relays can be had micro-size... wiring... tubes—Space, you've got a few hundred circuits there. ”

“I know. How big? ”

Semic indicated with his hands.

“Too big, ” said Darell. “I've got to swing it from my belt”

Slowly, he was crumpling his sketch into a tight ball. When it was a hard, yellow grape, he dropped it into the ash tray and it was gone with the tiny white flare of molecular decomposition.

He said, “Who's at your door? ”

Semic leaned over his desk to the little milky screen above the door signal. He said, “The young fellow, Anthor. Someone with him, too. ”

Darell scraped his chair back. “Nothing about this, Semic, to the others yet. It's deadly knowledge, if they find out, and two lives are enough to risk. ”

Pelleas Anthor was a pulsing vortex of activity in Semic's office, which, somehow, managed to partake of the age of its occupant. In the slow turgor of the quiet room, the loose, summery sleeves of Anthor's tunic seemed still a-quiver with the outer breezes.

He said, “Dr. Darell, Dr. Semic—Orum Dirige. ”

The other man was tall. A long straight nose that lent his thin face a saturnine appearance. Dr. Darell held out a hand.

Anthor smiled slightly. “Police Lieutenant Dirige, ” he amplified. Then, significantly, “Of Kalgan. ”

And Darell turned to stare with force at the young man. “Police Lieutenant Dirige of Kalgan, ” he repeated, distinctly. “And you bring him here. Why? ”

“Because he was the last man on Kalgan to see your daughter. Hold, man. ”

Anthor's look of triumph was suddenly one of concern, and he was between the two, struggling violently with Darell. Slowly, and not gently, he forced the older man back into the chair.

“What are you trying to do? ” Anthor brushed a lock of brown hair from his forehead, tossed a hip lightly upon the desk, and swung a leg, thoughtfully. “I thought I was bringing you good news. ”

Darell addressed the policeman directly, “What does he mean by calling you the last man to see my daughter? Is my daughter dead? Please tell me without preliminary. ” His face was white with apprehension.

Lieutenant Dirige said expressionlessly, “'Last man on Kalgan’ was the phrase. She's not on Kalgan now. I have no knowledge past that. ”

“Here, ” broke in Anthor, “let me put it straight. Sorry if I overplayed the drama a bit, Doc. You're so inhuman about this, I forget you have feelings. In the first place, Lieutenant Dirige is one of us. He was born on Kalgan, but his father was a Foundation man brought to that planet in the service of the Mule. I answer for the lieutenant's loyalty to the Foundation.

“Now I was in touch with him the day after we stopped getting the daily report from Munn—”

“Why? ” broke in Darell, fiercely. “I thought it was quite decided that we were not to make a move in the matter. You were risking their lives and ours. ”

“Because, ” was the equally fierce retort, “I've been involved in this game for longer than you. Because I know of certain contacts on Kalgan of which you know nothing. Because I act from deeper knowledge, do you understand? ”

“I think you're completely mad. ”

“Will you listen? ”

A pause, and Darell's eyes dropped.

Anthor's lips quirked into a half smile, “All right, Doc. Give me a few minutes. Tell him, Dirige. ”

Dirige spoke easily: “As far as I know, Dr. Darell, your daughter is at Trantor. At least, she had a ticket to Trantor at the Eastern Spaceport. She was with a Trading Representative from that planet who claimed she was his niece. Your daughter seems to have a queer collection of relatives, doctor. That was the second uncle she had in a period of two weeks, eh? The Trantorian even tried to bribe me—probably thinks that's why they got away. ” He smiled grimly at the thought.

“How was she? ”

“Unharmed, as far as I could see. Frightened. I don't blame her for that. The whole department was after her. I still don't know why. ”

Darell drew a breath for what seemed the first time in several minutes. He was conscious of the trembling of his hands and controlled them with an effort. “Then she's all right. This Trading Representative, who was he? Go back to him. What part does he play in it? ”

“I don't know. Do you know anything about Trantor? ”

“I lived there once. ”

“It's an agricultural world, now. Exports animal fodder and grains, mostly. High quality! They sell them all over the Galaxy. There are a dozen or two farm co-operatives on the planet and each has its representatives overseas. Shrewd sons of guns, too- I knew this one's record. He'd been on Kalgan before, usually with his wife. Perfectly honest. Perfectly harmless. ”

“Um-m-m, ” said Anthor. “Arcadia was born in Trantor, wasn't she, Doc? ”

Darell nodded.

“It hangs together, you see. She wanted to go away—quickly and far—and Trantor would suggest itself. Don't you think so? ”

Darell said: “Why not back here? ”

“Perhaps she was being pursued and felt that she had to double off in a new angle, eh? '

Dr. Darell lacked the heart to question further. Well, then, let her be safe on Trantor, or as safe as one could be anywhere in this dark and horrible Galaxy. He groped toward the door, felt Anthor's light touch on his sleeve, and stopped, but did not turn.

“Mind if I go home with you, Doc? ”

“You're welcome, ” was the automatic response.

By evening, the exteriormost reaches of Dr. Darell's personality, the ones that made immediate contact with other people had solidified once more. He had refused to eat his evening meal and had, instead, with feverish insistence, returned to the inchwise advance into the intricate mathematics of encephalographic analysis.

It was not till nearly midnight, that he entered the living room again.

Pelleas Anthor was still there, twiddling at the controls of the video. The footsteps behind him caused him to glance over his shoulder.

“Hi. Aren't you in bed yet? I've been spending hours on the video, trying to get something other than bulletins. It seems the F. S. Hober Mallow is delayed in course and hasn't been heard from”

“Really? What do they suspect? ”

“What do you think? Kalganian skulduggery. There are reports that Kalganian vessels were sighted in the general space sector in which the Hober Mallow was last heard from? ”

Darell shrugged, and Anthor rubbed his forehead doubtfully.

“Look doc, ” he said, “why don't you go to Trantor? ”

“Why should I? ”

“Because “You're no good to us here. You're not yourself. You can't be. And you could accomplish a purpose by going to Trantor, too. The old Imperial Library with the complete records of the Proceedings of the Seldon Commission are there—”

“No! The Library has been picked clean and it hasn't helped anyone. ”

“It helped Ebling Mis once. ”

“How do you know? Yes, he said he found the Second Foundation, and my mother killed him five seconds later as the only way to keep him from unwittingly revealing its location to the Mule. But in doing so, she also, you realize, made it impossible ever to tell whether Mis really did know the location. After all, no one else has ever been able to deduce the truth from those records. ”

“Ebling Mis, if you'll remember, was working under the driving impetus of the Mule's mind. ”

“I know that, too, but Mis’ mind was, by that very token, in an abnormal state. Do you and I know anything about the properties of a mind under the emotional control of another; about its abilities and shortcomings? In any case, I will not go to Trantor. ”

Anthor frowned, “Well, why the vehemence? I merely suggested it as—well, by Space, I don't understand you. You look ten years older. You're obviously having a hellish time of it. You're not doing anything of value here. If I were you, I'd go and get the girl. ”

“Exactly! It's what I want to do, too. That's why I won't do it. Look, Anthor, and try to understand. You're playing—we're both playing—with something completely beyond our powers to fight. In cold blood, if you have any, you know that, whatever you may think in your moments of quixoticism.

“For fifty years, we've known that the Second Foundation is the real descendent and pupil of Seldonian mathematics. What that means, and you know that, too, is that nothing in the Galaxy happens which does not play a part in their reckoning. To us, all life is a series of accidents, to be met with by improvisations To them, all life is purposive and should be met by precalculation.

“But they have their weakness. Their work is statistical and only the mass action of humanity is truly inevitable. Now how I play a part, as an individual, in the foreseen course of history, I don't know. Perhaps I have no definite part, since the Plan leaves individuals to indeterminacy and free will. But I am important and they—they, you understand—may at least have calculated my probable reaction. So I distrust, my impulses, my desires, my probable reactions.

“I would rather present them with an improbable reaction. I will stay here, despite the fact that I yearn very desperately to leave. “No! Because I yearn very desperately to leave. ”

The younger man smiled sourly. “You don't know your own mind as well as they might. Suppose that—knowing you—they might count on what you think, merely think, is the improbable reaction, simply by knowing in advance what your line of reasoning would be. ”

“In that case, there is no escape. For if I follow the reasoning you have just outlined and go to Trantor, they may have foreseen that, too. There is an endless cycle of double-double-double-double-crosses. No matter how far I follow that cycle, I can only either go or stay. The intricate act of luring my daughter halfway across the Galaxy cannot be meant to make me stay where I am, since I would most certainly have stayed if they had done nothing. It can only be to make me move, and so I will stay.

“And besides, Anthor, not everything bears the breath of the Second Foundation; not all events are the results of their puppeting. They may have had nothing to do with Arcadia's leave-taking, and she may be safe on Trantor when all the rest of us are dead. ”

“No, ” said Anthor, sharply, “now you are off the track. ”

“You have an alternative interpretation? ”

“I have—if you'll listen. ”

“Oh, go ahead. I don't lack patience. ”

“Well, then—how well do you know your own daughter? ”

“How well can any individual know any other? Obviously, my knowledge is inadequate. ”

“So is mine on that basis, perhaps even more so—but at least, I viewed her with fresh eyes. Item one: She is a ferocious little romantic, the only child of an ivory-tower academician, growing up in an unreal world of video and book-film adventure. She lives in a weird self-constructed fantasy of espionage and intrigue. Item two: She's intelligent about it; intelligent enough to outwit us, at any rate. She planned carefully to overhear our first conference and succeeded. She planned carefully to go to Kalgan with Munn and succeeded. Item three: She has an unholy hero-worship of her grandmother—your mother—who defeated the Mule.

“I'm right so far, I think? All right, then. Now, unlike you, I've received a complete report from Lieutenant Dirige and, in addition, my sources of information on Kalgan are rather complete, and all sources check. We know, for instance, that Homir Munn, in conference with the Lord of Kalgan was refused admission to the Mule's Palace, and that this refusal was suddenly abrogated after Arcadia had spoken to Lady Callia, the First Citizen's very good friend. ”

Darell interrupted. “And how do you know all this? ”

“For one thing, Munn was interviewed by Dirige as part of the police campaign to locate Arcadia. Naturally, we have a complete transcript of the questions and answers.

“And take Lady Callia herself. It is rumored that she has lost Stettin's interest, but the rumor isn't borne out by facts. She not only remains unreplaced; is not only able to mediate the lord's refusal to Munn into an acceptance; but can even engineer Arcadia's escape openly. Why, a dozen of the soldiers about Stettin's executive mansion testified that they were seen together on the last evening. Yet she remains unpunished. This despite the fact that Arcadia was searched for with every appearance of diligence. ”

“But what is your conclusion from all this torrent of ill-connection? ”

“That Arcadia's escape was arranged. ”

“As I said. ”

“With this addition. That Arcadia must have known it was arranged; that Arcadia, the bright little girl who saw cabals everywhere, saw this one and followed your own type of reasoning. They wanted her to return to the Foundation, and so she went to Trantor, instead. But why Trantor? ”

“Well, why? ”

“Because that is where Bayta, her idolized grandmother, escaped when she was in flight. Consciously or unconsciously, Arcadia imitated that. I wonder, then, if Arcadia was fleeing the same enemy. ”

“The Mule? ” asked Darell with polite sarcasm.

“Of course not. I mean, by the enemy, a mentality that she could not fight. She was running from the Second Foundation, or such influence thereof as could be found on Kalgan. ”

“What influence is this you speak of? ”

“Do you expect Kalgan to be immune from that ubiquitous menace? We both have come to the conclusion, somehow, that Arcadia's escape was arranged. Right? She was searched for and found, but deliberately allowed to slip away by Dirige. By Dirige, do you understand? But how was that? Because he was our man. But how did they know that? Were they counting on him to be a traitor? Eh, doc? ”

“Now you're saying that they honestly meant to recapture her. Frankly, you're tiring me a bit, Anthor. Finish your say; I want to go to bed. ”

“My say is quickly finished. ” Anthor reached for a small group of photo-records in his inner pocket. It was the familiar wigglings of the encephalograph. “Dirige's brainwaves, ” Anthor said, casually, “taken since he returned. ”

It was quite visible to Darell's naked eye, and his face was gray when he looked up. “He is Controlled. ”

“Exactly. He allowed Arcadia to escape not because he was our man but because he was the Second Foundation's. ”

“Even after he knew she was going to Trantor, and not to Terminus. ”

Anthor shrugged. “He had been geared to let her go. There was no way he could modify that. He was only a tool, you see. It was just that Arcadia followed the least probable course, and is probably safe. Or at least safe until such time as the Second Foundation can modify the plans to take into account this changed state of affairs—”

He paused. The little signal light on the video set was flashing. On an independent circuit, it signified the presence of emergency news. Darell saw it, too, and with the mechanical movement of long habit turned on the video. They broke in upon the middle of a sentence but before its completion, they knew that the Hober Mallow, or the wreck thereof, had been found and that, for the first time in nearly half a century, the Foundation was again at war.

Anthor's jaw was set in a hard line. “All right, doc, you heard that. Kalgan has attacked; and Kalgan is under the control of the Second Foundation. Will you follow your daughter's lead and move to Trantor? ”

“No. I will risk it. Here. ”

“Dr. Darell. You are not as intelligent as your daughter. I wonder how far you can be trusted. ” His long level stare held Darell for a moment, and then without a word, he left.

And Darell was left in uncertainty and—almost—despair.

Unheeded, the video was a medley of excited sight-sound, as it described in nervous detail the first hour of the war between Kalgan and the Foundation.

War

The mayor of the Foundation brushed futilely at the picket fence of hair that rimmed his skull. He sighed. “The years that we have wasted; the chances we have thrown away. I make no recriminations, Dr. Darell, but we deserve defeat. ”

Darell said, quietly, “I see no reason for lack of confidence in events, sir. ”

“Lack of confidence! Lack of confidence! By the Galaxy, Dr. Darell, on what would you base any other attitude? Come here—”

He half-led half-forced Darell toward the limpid ovoid cradled gracefully on its tiny force-field support. At a touch of the mayor's hand, it glowed within—an accurate three-dimensional model of the Galactic double-spiral.

“In yellow, ” said the mayor, excitedly, “we have that region of Space under Foundation control; in red, that under Kalgan. ”

What Darell saw was a crimson sphere resting within a stretching yellow fist that surrounded it on all sides but that toward the center of the Galaxy.

“Galactography, ” said the mayor, “is our greatest enemy. Our admirals make no secret of our almost hopeless, strategic position. Observe. The enemy has inner lines of communication. He is concentrated; can meet us on all sides with equal ease. He can defend himself with minimum force.

“We are expanded. The average distance between inhabited systems within the Foundation is nearly three times that within Kalgan. To go from Santanni to Locris, for instance, is a voyage of twenty-five hundred parsecs for us, but only eight hundred parsecs for them, if we remain within our respective territories—”

Darell said, “I understand all that, sir. ”

“And you do not understand that it may mean defeat. ”

“There is more than distance to war. I say we cannot lose. It is quite impossible. ”

“And why do you say that? ”

“Because of my own interpretation of the Seldon Plan. ”

“Oh, ” the mayor's lips twisted, and the hands behind his back flapped one within the other, “then you rely, too, on the mystical help of the Second Foundation. ”

“No. Merely on the help of inevitability—and of courage and persistence. ”

And yet behind his easy confidence, he wondered—

What if—

WellWhat if Anthor were right, and Kalgan were a direct tool of the mental wizards. What if it was their purpose to defeat and destroy the Foundation. No! It made no sense!

And yet—

He smiled bitterly. Always the same. Always that peering and peering through the opaque granite which, to the enemy, was so transparent.

Nor were the galactographic verities of the situation lost upon Stettin.

The Lord of Kalgan stood before a twin of the Galactic model which the mayor and Darell had inspected. Except that where the mayor frowned, Stettin smiled.

His admiral's uniform glistered imposingly upon his massive figure. The crimson sash of the Order of the Mule awarded him by the former First Citizen whom six months later he had replaced somewhat forcefully, spanned his chest diagonally from right shoulder to waist. The Silver Star with Double Comets and Swords sparkled brilliantly upon his left shoulder.

He addressed the six men of his general staff whose uniforms were only less grandiloquent than his own, and his First Minister as well, thin and gray—a darkling cobweb, lost in the brightness.

Stettin said, “I think the decisions are clear. We can afford to wait. To them, every day of delay will be another blow at their morale. If they attempt to defend all portions of their realm, they will be spread thin and we can strike through in two simultaneous thrusts here and here. ” He indicated the directions on the Galactic model—two lances of pure white shooting through the yellow fist from the red ball it inclosed, cutting Terminus off on either side in a tight arc. “In such a manner, we cut their fleet into three parts which can be defeated in detail. If they concentrate, they give up two-thirds of their dominions voluntarily and will probably risk rebellion. ”

The First Minister's thin voice alone seeped through the hush that followed. “In six months, ” he said, “the Foundation will grow six months stronger. Their resources are greater, as we all know, their navy is numerically stronger; their manpower is virtually inexhaustible. Perhaps a quick thrust would be safer. ”

His was easily the least influential voice in the room. Lord Stettin smiled and made a flat gesture with his hand. “The six months—or a year, if necessary—will cost us nothing. The men of the Foundation cannot prepare; they are ideologically incapable of it. It is in their very philosophy to believe that the Second Foundation will save them. But not this time, eh? ”

The men in the room stirred uneasily.

“You lack confidence, I believe, ” said Stettin, frigidly. “Is it necessary once again to describe the reports of our agents in Foundation territory, or to repeat the findings of Mr. Homir Munn, the Foundation agent now in our... uh... service? Let us adjourn, gentlemen. ”

Stettin returned to his private chambers with a fixed smile still on his face. He sometimes wondered about this Homir Munn. A queer water-spined fellow who certainly did not bear out his early promise. And yet he crawled with interesting information that carried conviction with it—particularly when Callia was present.

His smile broadened. That fat fool had her uses, after all. At least, she got more with her wheedling out of Munn than he could, and with less trouble. Why not give her to Munn? He frowned. Callia. She and her stupid jealousy. Space! If he still had the Darell girlWhy hadn't he ground her skull to powder for that?

He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason.

Maybe because she got along with Munn. And he needed Munn. It was Munn, for instance, who had demonstrated that, at least in the belief of the Mule, there was no Second Foundation. His admirals needed that assurance.

He would have liked to make the proofs public, but it was better to let the Foundation believe in their nonexistent help. Was it actually Callia who had pointed that out? That's right. She had said—

Oh, nonsense! She couldn't have said anything.

And yet—

He shook his head to clear it and passed on.

Ghost of a World

Trantor was a world in dregs and rebirth. Set like a faded jewel in the midst of the bewildering crowd of suns at the center of the Galaxy—in the heaps and clusters of stars piled high with aimless prodigality—it alternately dreamed of past and future.

Time had been when the insubstantial ribbons of control had stretched out from its metal coating to the very edges of stardom. It had been a single city, housing four hundred billion administrators; the mightiest capital that had ever been.

Until the decay of the Empire eventually reached it and in the Great Sack of a century ago, its drooping powers had been bent back upon themselves and broken forever. In the blasting ruin of death, the metal shell that circled the planet wrinkled and crumpled into an aching mock of its own grandeur.

The survivors tore up the metal plating and sold it to other planets for seed and cattle. The soil was uncovered once more and the planet returned to its beginnings. In the spreading areas of primitive agriculture, it forgot its intricate and colossal past.

Or would have but for the still mighty shards that heaped their massive ruins toward the sky in bitter and dignified silence.

Arcadia watched the metal rim of the horizon with a stirring of the heart. The village in which the Palvers lived was but a huddle of houses to her—small and primitive. The fields that surrounded it were golden-yellow, wheat-cIogged tracts.

But there, just past the reaching point was the memory of the past, still glowing in unrusted splendor, and burning with fire where the sun of Trantor caught it in gleaming highlights. She had been there once during the months since she had arrived at Trantor. She had climbed onto the smooth, unjointed pavement and ventured into the silent dust-streaked structures, where the light entered through the jags of broken walls and partitions.

It had been solidified heartache. It had been blasphemy.

She had left, clangingly—running until her feet pounded softly on earth once more.

And then she could only look back longingly. She dared not disturb that mighty brooding once more.

Somewhere on this world, she knew, she had been born—near the old Imperial Library, which was the veriest Trantor of Trantor. It was the sacred of the sacred; the holy of holies! Of all the world, it alone had survived the Great Sack and for a century it had remained complete and untouched; defiant of the universe.

There Hari Seldon and his group had woven their unimaginable web. There Ebling Mis pierced the secret, and sat numbed in his vast surprise, until he was killed to prevent the secret from going further.

There at the Imperial Library, her grandparents had lived for ten years, until the Mule died, and they could return to the reborn Foundation.

There at the Imperial Library, her own father returned with his bride to find the Second Foundation once again, but failed. There, she had been born and there her mother had died.

She would have liked to visit the Library, but Preem Palver shook his round head. “It's thousands of miles, Arkady, and there's so much to do here. Besides, it's not good to bother there. You know; it's a shrine—”

But Arcadia knew that he had no desire to visit the Library; that it was a case of the Mule's Palace over again. There was this superstitious fear on the part of the pygmies of the present for the relies of the giants of the past.

Yet it would have been horrible to feel a grudge against the funny little man for that. She had been on Trantor now for nearly three months and in all that time, he and she—Pappa and Mamma—had been wonderful to her—

And what was her return? Why, to involve them in the common ruin. Had she warned them that she was marked for destruction, perhaps? No! She let them assume the deadly role of protectors.

Her conscience panged unbearably—yet what choice had she?

She stepped reluctantly down the stairs to breakfast. The voices reached her.

Preem Palver had tucked the napkin down his shirt collar with a twist of his plump neck and had reached for his poached eggs with an uninhibited satisfaction.

“I was down in the city yesterday, Mamma, ” he said, wielding his fork and nearly drowning the words with a capacious mouthful.

“And what is down in the city, Pappa? ” asked Mamma indifferently, sitting down, looking sharply about the table, and rising again for the salt.

“Ah, not so good. A ship came in from out Kalgan-way with newspapers from there. It's war there. ”

“War! So! Well, let them break their heads, if they have no more sense inside. Did your pay check come yet? Pappa, I'm telling you again. You warn old man Cosker this isn't the only cooperative in the world. It's bad enough they pay you what I'm ashamed to tell my friends, but at least on time they could be! ”

“Time; shmime, ” said Pappa, irritably. “Look, don't make me silly talk at breakfast, it should choke me each bite in the throat, ” and he wreaked havoc among the buttered toast as he said it. He added, somewhat more moderately, “The fighting is between Kalgan and the Foundation, and for two months, they've been at it. ”

His hands lunged at one another in mock-representation of a space fight.

“Um-m-m. And what's doing? ”

“Bad for the Foundation. Well, you saw Kalgan; all soldiers. They were ready. The Foundation was not, and so—poof! ”

And suddenly, Mamma laid down her fork and hissed, “Fool! ”

“Huh? ”

“Dumb-head! Your big mouth is always moving and wagging. ”

She was pointing quickly and when Pappa looked over his shoulder, there was Arcadia, frozen in the doorway.

She said, “The Foundation is at war? ”

Pappa looked helplessly at Mamma, then nodded.

“And they're losing? ”

Again the nod.

Arcadia felt the unbearable catch in her throat, and slowly approached the table. “Is it over? ” she whispered.

“Over? ” repeated Pappa, with false heartiness. “Who said it was over? In war, lots of things can happen. And... and—”

“Sit down, darling, ” said Mamma, soothingly. “No one should talk before breakfast. You're not in a healthy condition with no food in the stomach. ”

But Arcadia ignored her. “Are the Kalganians on Terminus? ”

“No, ” said Pappa, seriously. “The news is from last week, and Terminus is still fighting. This is honest. I'm telling the truth. And the Foundation is still strong. Do you want me to get you the newspapers? ”

“Yes! ”

She read them over what she could eat of her breakfast and her eyes blurred as she read. Santanni and Korell were gone—without a fight. A squadron of the Foundation's navy had been trapped in the sparsely-sunned Ifni sector and wiped out to almost the last ship.

And now the Foundation was back to the Four-Kingdom core—the original Realm which had been built up under Salvor Hardin, the first mayor. But still it fought—and still there might be a chance-and whatever happened, she must inform her father. She must somehow reach his ear. She must!

But how? With a war in the way.

She asked Pappa after breakfast, “Are you going out on a new mission soon, Mr. Palver? ”

Pappa was on the large chair on the front lawn, sunning himself. A fat cigar smoldered between his plump fingers and he looked like a beatific pug-dog.

“A mission? ” he repeated, lazily. “Who knows? It's a nice vacation and my leave isn't up. Why talk about new missions? You're restless, Arkady? ”

“Me? No, I like it here. You're very good to me, you and Mrs. Palver. ”

He waved his hand at her, brushing away her words.

Arcadia said, “I was thinking about the war. ”

“But don't think about it. What can you do? If it's something you can't help, why hurt yourself over it? ”

“But I was thinking that the Foundation has lost most of its farming worlds. They're probably rationing food there. ”

Pappa looked uncomfortable. “Don't worry. It'll be all right. ”

She scarcely listened. “I wish I could carry food to them, that's what. You know after the Mule died, and the Foundation rebelled, Terminus was just about isolated for a time and General Han Pritcher, who succeeded the Mule for a while was laying siege to it. Food was running awfully low and my father says that his father told him that they only had dry amino-acid concentrates that tasted terrible. Why, one egg cost two hundred credits. And then they broke the siege just in time and food ships came through from Santanni. It must have been an awful time. Probably it's happening all over, now. ”

There was a pause, and then Arcadia said, “You know, I'll bet the Foundation would be willing to pay smuggler's prices for food now. Double and triple and more. Gee, if any co-operative, f'r instance, here on Trantor took over the job, they might lose some ships, but, I'll bet they'd be war millionaires before it was over. The Foundation Traders in the old days used to do that all the time. There'd be a war, so they'd sell whatever was needed bad and take their chances. Golly, they used to make as much as two million dollars out of one trip—profit. That was just out of what they could carry on one ship, too. ”

Pappa stirred. His cigar had gone out, unnoticed. “A deal for food, huh? Hm-m-mBut the Foundation is so far away. ”

“Oh, I know. I guess you couldn't do it from here. If you took a regular liner you probably couldn't get closer than Massena or Smushyk, and after that you'd have to hire a small scoutship or something to slip you through the lines. ”

Pappa's hand brushed at his hair, as he calculated.

Two weeks later, arrangements for the mission were completed. Mamma railed for most of the timeFirst, at the incurable obstinacy with which he courted suicide. Then, at the incredible obstinacy with which he refused to allow her to accompany him.

Pappa said, “Mamma, why do you act like an old lady. I can't take you. It's a man's work. What do you think a war is? Fun? Child's play? ”

“Then why do you go? Are you a man, you old fool—with a leg and half an arm in the grave. Let some of the young ones go—not a fat bald-head like you? ”

“I'm not a bald-head, ” retorted Pappa, with dignity. “I got yet lots of hair. And why should it not be me that gets the commission? Why, a young fellow? Listen, this could mean millions? ”

She knew that and she subsided.

Arcadia saw him once before he left.

She said, “Are you going to Terminus? ”

“Why not? You say yourself they need bread and rice and potatoes. Well, I'll make a deal with them, and they'll get it. ”

“Well, then—just one thing: If you're going to Terminus, could you... would you see my father? ”

And Pappa's face crinkled and seemed to melt into sympathy, “Oh—and I have to wait for you to tell me. Sure, I'll see him. I'll tell him you're safe and everything's O. K., and when the war is over, I'll bring you back. ”

“Thanks. I'll tell you how to find him. His name is Dr. Toran Darell and he lives in Stanmark. That's just outside Terminus City, and you can get a little commuting plane that goes there. We're at 55 Channel Drive. ”

“Wait, and I'll write it down. ”

“No, no, ” Arcadia's arm shot out. “You mustn't write anything down. You must remember—and find him without anybody's help. ”

Pappa looked puzzled. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then. It's 55 Channel Drive in Stanmark, outside Terminus City, and you commute there by plane. All right? ”

“One other thing. ”

“Yes? ”

“Would you tell him something from me? ”

“Sure. ”

“I want to whisper it to you. ”

He leaned his plump cheek toward her, and the little whispered sound passed from one to the other.

Pappa's eyes were round. “That's what you want me to say? But it doesn't make sense. ”

“He'll know what you mean. Just say I sent it and that I said he would know what it means. And you say it exactly the way I told you. No different. You won't forget it? ”

“How can I forget it? Five little words. Look—”

“No, no. ” She hopped up and down in the intensity of her feelings. “Don't repeat it. Don't ever repeat it to anyone. Forget all about it except to my father. Promise me. ”

Pappa shrugged again. “I promise! All right! ”

“All right, ” she said, mournfully, and as he passed down the drive to where the air taxi waited to take him to the spaceport, she wondered if she had signed his death warrant. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

She scarcely dared to walk into the house again to face the good, kind Mamma. Maybe when it was all over, she had better kill herself for what she had done to them.

End of War

QUORISTON, BATTLE OF Fought on 9, 17, 377 F. E. between the forces of the Foundation and those of Lord Stettin of Kalgan, it was the last battle of consequence during the Interregnum... .

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