Foundation and Empire - Isaac Asimov [25]
“Such as?”
“Such as a request to the Emperor for reinforcements.”
Devers’s contemptuous smile broadened. “He has communicated with the Emperor, huh? And I take it, boss, you’re just waiting for these reinforcements, but they’ll come any day. Right?”
“Wrong! They have already come. Five ships of the line; smooth and strong, with a personal message of congratulations from the Emperor, and more ships on the way. What’s wrong, Trader?” he asked, sardonically.
Devers spoke through suddenly frozen lips. “Nothing!”
Riose strode out from behind his desk and faced the Trader, hand on the butt of his blast-gun.
“I say, what’s wrong, Trader? The news would seem to disturb you. Surely, you have no sudden birth of interest in the Foundation.”
“I haven’t.”
“Yes—there are queer points about you.”
“That so, boss?” Devers smiled tightly, and balled the fists in his pockets. “Just you line them up and I’ll knock them down for you.”
“Here they are. You were caught easily. You surrendered at first blow with a burnt-out shield. You’re quite ready to desert your world, and that without a price. Interesting, all this, isn’t it?”
“I crave to be on the winning side, boss. I’m a sensible man; you called me that yourself.”
Riose said with tight throatiness, “Granted! Yet no Trader since has been captured. No trade ship but has had the speed to escape at choice. No trade ship but has had a screen that could take all the beating a light cruiser could give it, should it choose to fight. And no Trader but has fought to death when occasion warranted. Traders have been traced as the leaders and instigators of the guerrilla warfare on occupied planets and of the flying raids in occupied space.
“Are you the only sensible man then? You neither fight nor flee, but turn traitor without urging. You are unique, amazingly unique—in fact, suspiciously unique.”
Devers said softly, “I take your meaning, but you have nothing on me. I’ve been here now six months, and I’ve been a good boy.”
“So you have, and I have repaid you by good treatment. I have left your ship undisturbed and treated you with every consideration. Yet you fall short. Freely offered information, for instance, on your gadgets might have been helpful. The atomic principles on which they are built would seem to be used in some of the Foundation’s nastiest weapons. Right?”
“I am only a Trader,” said Devers, “and not one of these bigwig technicians. I sell the stuff; I don’t make it.”
“Well, that will be seen shortly. It is what I came here for. For instance, your ship will be searched for a personal force-shield. You have never worn one; yet all soldiers of the Foundation do. It will be significant evidence that there is information you do not choose to give me. Right?”
There was no answer. He continued, “And there will be more direct evidence. I have brought with me the Psychic Probe. It failed once before, but contact with the enemy is a liberal education.”
His voice was smoothly threatening and Devers felt the gun thrust hard into his midriff—the general’s gun, hitherto in its holster.
The general said quietly, “You will remove your wristband and any other metal ornament you wear and give them to me. Slowly! Atomic fields can be distorted, you see, and Psychic Probes might probe only into static. That’s right. I’ll take it.”
The receiver on the general’s desk was glowing and a message capsule clicked into the slot, near which Barr stood and still held the trimensional Imperial bust.
Riose stepped behind his desk, with his blast-gun held ready. He said to Barr, “You too, patrician. Your wristband condemns you. You have been helpful earlier, however, and I am not vindictive, but I shall judge the fate of your behostaged family by the results of the Psychic Probe.”
And as Riose leaned over to take out the message capsule, Barr lifted the crystal-enveloped bust of Cleon and quietly and methodically brought it down upon the general’s head.
It happened too suddenly for Devers to grasp. It was as if a sudden demon had grown into the old man.
“Out!” said Barr, in