Second Foundation(59)

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.




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-

Well- What 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?"