Second Foundation. Айзек Азимов

Elders apparently meet freely and without interference of any sort. The taxation they speak of doesn’t seem at all extensive to me or efficiently carried through. The natives speak much of poverty but seem sturdy and well-fed. The houses are uncouth and their villages rude, but are obviously adequate for the purpose.

      ‘In fact, the world fascinates me. I have never seen a more forbidding one, yet I am convinced there is no suffering among the population and that their uncomplicated lives manage to contain a well-balanced happiness lacking in the sophisticated populations of the advanced centres.’

      ‘Are you an admirer of peasant virtues, then?’

      ‘The stars forbid.’ Channis seemed amused at the idea. ‘I merely point out the significance of all this. Apparently, Tazenda is an efficient administrator – efficient in a sense far different from the efficiency of the Old Empire or of the First Foundation, or even of our own Union. All these have brought mechanical efficiency to their subjects at the cost of more intangible values. Tazenda brings happiness and sufficiency. Don’t you see that the whole orientation of their domination is different? It is not physical, but psychological.’

      ‘Really?’ Pritcher allowed himself irony. ‘And the terror with which the Elders spoke of the punishment of treason by these kind hearted psychologist administrators? How does that suit your thesis?’

      ‘Were they the objects of the punishment? They speak of punishment only of others. It is as if knowledge of punishment has been so well implanted in them that punishment itself need never be used. The proper mental attitudes are so inserted into their minds that I am certain that not a Tazendian soldier exists on the planet. Don’t you see all this?’

      ‘I’ll see perhaps,’ said Pritcher, coldly, ‘when I see the governor. And what, by the way, if our mentalities are handled?’

      Channis replied with brutal contempt: ‘You should be accustomed to that.’

      Pritcher whitened perceptibly, and, with an effort, turned away. They spoke to one another no more that day.

      It was in the silent windlessness of the frigid night, as he listened to the soft, sleeping motions of the other, that Pritcher silently adjusted his wrist-transmitter to the ultrawave region for which Channis’ was unadjustable and, with noiseless touches of his fingernail, contacted the ship.

      The answer came in little periods of noiseless vibration that barely lifted themselves above the sensory threshold.

      Twice Pritcher asked: ‘Any communications at all yet?’

      Twice the answer came: ‘None. We wait always.’

      He got out of bed. It was cold in the room and he pulled the furry blanket around him as he sat in the chair and stared out at the crowding stars so different in the brightness and complexity of their arrangement from the even fog of the Galactic Lens that dominated the night sky of his native Periphery.

      Somewhere there between the stars was the answer to the complications that overwhelmed him, and he felt the yearning for that solution to arrive and end things.

      For a moment he wondered again if the Mule were right – if Conversion had robbed him of the firm sharp edge of self-reliance. Or was it simply age and the fluctuations of these last years?

      He didn’t really care.

      He was tired.

      The governor of Rossem arrived with minor ostentation. His only companion was the uniformed man at the controls of the ground-car.

      The ground-car itself was of lush design but to Pritcher it appeared inefficient. It turned clumsily; more than once it apparently balked at what might have been a too-rapid change of gears. It was obvious at once from its design that it ran on chemical, and not on atomic, fuel.

      The Tazendian governor stepped softly on to the thin layer of snow and advanced between two lines of respectful Elders. He did not look on them but entered quickly. They followed after him.

      From the quarters assigned to them, the two men of the Mule’s Union watched. He – the governor – was thickset, rather stocky, short, unimpressive.

      But what of that?

      Pritcher cursed himself for a failure of nerve. His face, to be sure, remained icily calm. There was no humiliation before Channis – but he knew very well that his blood pressure had heightened and his throat had become dry.

      It was not a case of physical fear. He was not one of those dull-witted, unimaginative men of nerveless meat who were too stupid ever to be afraid – but physical fear he could account for and discount.

      But this was different. It was the other fear.

      He glanced quickly at Channis. The young man glanced idly at the nails of one hand and poked leisurely at some trifling unevenness.

      Something inside Pritcher became vastly indignant. What had Channis to fear of mental handling?

      Pritcher caught a mental breath and tried to think back. How had he been before the Mule had Converted him from the diehard Democrat that he was. It was hard to remember. He could not place himself mentally. He could not break the clinging wires that bound him emotionally to the Mule. Intellectually, he could remember that he had once tried to assassinate the Mule but not for all the straining he could endure, could he remember his emotions at the time. That might be the self-defence of his own mind, however, for at the intuitive thought of what those emotions might have been – not realizing the details, but merely comprehending the drift of it – his stomach grew queasy.

      What if the governor tampered with his mind?

      What if the insubstantial mental tendrils of a Second Foundationer insinuated itself down the emotional crevices of his makeup and pulled them apart and rejoined them—

      There had been no sensation the first time. There had been no pain, no mental jar – not even a feeling of discontinuity. He had always loved the Mule. If there had ever been a time long before – as long before as five short years – when he had thought he hadn’t loved him, that he had hated him – that was just a horrid illusion. The thought of that illusion embarrassed him.

      But there had been no pain.

      Would meeting the governor duplicate that? Would all that had gone before – all his service for the Mule – all his life’s orientation – join the hazy, other-life dream that held the word, Democracy. The Mule also a dream, and only to Tazenda, his loyalty—

      Sharply, he turned away.

      There was that strong desire to retch.

      And then Channis’ voice clashed on his ear, ‘I think this is it, general.’

      Pritcher turned again. An Elder had opened the door silently and stood with a dignified and calm respect upon the threshold.

      He said, ‘His Excellency, Governor of Rossem, in the name of the Lords of Tazenda, is pleased to present his permission for an audience and request your appearance before him.’

      ‘Sure thing,’ and Channis tightened his belt with a jerk and adjusted a Rossemian hood over his head.

      Pritcher’s jaw set. This was the beginning of the real gamble.

      The governor of Rossem was not of formidable appearance. For one thing, he was bareheaded, and his thinning hair, light brown, tending to grey, lent him mildness. His bony eye-ridges lowered at them, and his eyes, set in a fine network of surrounding wrinkles, seemed calculating, but his fresh-cropped chin was soft and small and, by the universal convention of followers of the pseudoscience of reading character by facial bony structure, seemed ‘weak.’

      Pritcher avoided the eyes and watched the chin. He didn’t know whether that would be effective – if anything would be.

      The governor’s voice was high-pitched, indifferent: ‘Welcome to Tazenda. We greet you in peace. You have eaten?’

      His hand – long fingers, gnarled veins – waved almost