Foundation. Айзек Азимов

was a remark, Hardin noted, for which Pirenne found no answer, though the expression of his face was most eloquent.

      The dinner that evening was much the mirror image of the events of that afternoon, for haut Rodric monopolized the conversation by describing – in minute technical detail and with incredible zest – his own exploits as battalion head during the recent war between Anacreon and the neighbouring newly proclaimed Kingdom of Smyrno.

      The details of the sub-prefect’s account were not completed until dinner was over and one by one the minor officials had drifted away. The last bit of triumphant description of mangled space-ships came when he had accompanied Pirenne and Hardin on to the balcony and relaxed in the warm air of the summer evening.

      ‘And now,’ he said, with a heavy joviality, ‘to serious matters.’

      ‘By all means,’ murmured Hardin, lighting a long cigar of Vegan tobacco – not many left, he reflected – and teetering his chair back on two legs.

      The Galaxy was high in the sky and its misty lens shape stretched lazily from horizon to horizon. The few stars here at the very edge of the universe were insignificant twinkles in comparison.

      ‘Of course,’ said the sub-prefect, ‘all the formal discussions – the paper signing and such dull technicalities, that is – will take place before the— What is it you call your Council?’

      ‘The Board of Trustees,’ replied Pirenne, coldly.

      ‘Queer name! Anyway, that’s for tomorrow. We might as well clear some of the underbrush, man to man, right now, though. Hey?’

      ‘And this means—’ prodded Hardin.

      ‘Just this. There’s been a certain change in the situation out here in the Periphery and the status of your planet has become a trifle uncertain. It would be very convenient if we succeeded in coming to an understanding as to how the matter stands. By the way, mayor, have you another one of those cigars?’

      Hardin started and produced one reluctantly.

      Anselm haut Rodric sniffed at it and emitted a clucking sound of pleasure. ‘Vegan tobacco! Where did you get it?’

      ‘We received some last shipment. There’s hardly any left. Space knows when we’ll get more – if ever.’

      Pirenne scowled. He didn’t smoke – and, for that matter, detested the odour. ‘Let me understand this, your eminence. Your mission is merely one of clarification?’

      Haut Rodric nodded through the smoke of his first lusty puffs.

      ‘In that case, it is soon over. The situation with respect to Encyclopedia Foundation Number One is what it always has been.’

      ‘Ah! And what is it that it always has been?’

      ‘Just this: a State-supported scientific institution and part of the personal domain of his august majesty, the Emperor.’

      The sub-prefect seemed unimpressed. He blew smoke rings. ‘That’s a nice theory, Dr Pirenne. I imagine you’ve got charters with the Imperial Seal upon it – but what’s the actual situation? How do you stand with respect to Smyrno? You’re not fifty parsecs from Smyrno’s capital, you know. And what about Konom and Daribow?’

      Pirenne said: ‘We have nothing to do with any prefect. As part of the Emperor’s—’

      ‘They’re not prefects,’ reminded haut Rodric; ‘they’re kingdoms now.’

      ‘Kingdoms then. We have nothing to do with them. As a scientific institution—’

      ‘Science be dashed!’ swore the other, via a bouncing soldierly oath that ionized the atmosphere. ‘What the devil has that got to do with the fact that we’re liable to see Terminus taken over by Smyrno at any time?’

      ‘And the Emperor? He would just sit by?’

      Haut Rodric calmed down and said: ‘Well, now, Dr Pirenne, you respect the Emperor’s property and so does Anacreon, but Smyrno might not. Remember, we’ve just signed a treaty with the Emperor – I’ll present a copy to that Board of yours tomorrow – which places upon us the responsibility of maintaining order within the borders of the old Prefect of Anacreon on behalf of the Emperor. Our duty is clear, then, isn’t it?’

      ‘Certainly. But Terminus is not part of the Prefect of Anacreon.’

      ‘And Smyrno—’

      ‘Nor is it part of the Prefect of Smyrno. It’s not part of any prefect.’

      ‘Does Smyrno know that?’

      ‘I don’t care what it knows.’

      ‘We do. We’ve just finished a war with her and she still holds two stellar systems that are ours. Terminus occupies an extremely strategic spot between the two nations.’

      Hardin felt weary. He broke in: ‘What is your proposition, your eminence?’

      The sub-prefect seemed quite ready to stop fencing in favour of more direct statements. He said briskly: ‘It seems perfectly obvious that, since Terminus cannot defend itself, Anacreon must take over the job for its own sake. You understand we have no desire to interfere with internal administration—’

      ‘Uh-huh,’ grunted Hardin dryly.

      ‘—but we believe that it would be best for all concerned to have Anacreon establish a military base upon the planet.’

      ‘And that is all you would want – a military base in some of the vast unoccupied territory – and let it go at that?’

      ‘Well, of course, there would be the matter of supporting the protecting forces.’

      Hardin’s chair came down on all fours, and his elbows went forward on his knees. ‘Now we’re getting to the nub. Let’s put it into language. Terminus is to be a protectorate and to pay tribute.’

      ‘Not tribute. Taxes. We’re protecting you. You pay for it.’

      Pirenne banged his hand on the chair with sudden violence. ‘Let me speak, Hardin. Your eminence, I don’t care a rusty half-credit coin for Anacreon, Smyrno, or all your local politics and petty wars. I tell you this is a State-supported tax-free institution.’

      ‘State-supported? But we are the State, Dr Pirenne, and we’re not supporting.’

      Pirenne rose angrily. ‘Your eminence, I am the direct representative of—’

      ‘– his august majesty, the Emperor,’ chorused Anselm haut Rodric sourly, ‘and I am the direct representative of the King of Anacreon. Anacreon is a lot nearer, Dr Pirenne.’

      ‘Let’s get back to business,’ urged Hardin. ‘How would you take these so-called taxes, your eminence? Would you take them in kind; wheat, potatoes, vegetables, cattle?’

      The sub-prefect stared. ‘What the devil? What do we need with those? We’ve got hefty surpluses. Gold, of course. Chromium or vanadium would be even better, incidentally, if you have it in quantity.’

      Hardin laughed. ‘Quantity! We haven’t even got iron in quantity. Gold! Here, take a look at our currency.’ He tossed a coin to the envoy.

      Haut Rodric bounced it and stared. ‘What is it? Steel?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Terminus is a planet practically without metals. We import it all. Consequently, we have no gold, and nothing to pay unless you want a few thousand bushels of potatoes.’

      ‘Well – manufactured goods.’

      ‘Without metal? What do we make our machines out of?’

      There was a pause and Pirenne tried again. ‘This whole discussion is wide of the point. Terminus is not a planet, but a