Foundation and Empire - Isaac Asimov [52]
“Who’s the greater tyrant you speak of?” flared Bayta.
“The Mule! I know a bit about him, enough to have been my death several times over already, if I had moved less nimbly. Send the clown out of the room. This will require privacy.”
“Magnifico,” said Bayta, with a gesture, and the clown left without a sound.
The captain’s voice was grave and intense, and low enough so that Toran and Bayta drew close.
He said, “The Mule is a shrewd operator—far too shrewd not to realize the advantage of the magnetism and glamour of personal leadership. If he gives that up, it’s for a reason. That reason must be the fact that personal contact would reveal something that is of overwhelming importance not to reveal.”
He waved aside questions, and continued more quickly. “I went back to his birthplace for this, and questioned people who for their knowledge will not live long. Few enough are still alive. They remember the baby born thirty years before—the death of his mother—his strange youth. The Mule is not a human being!”
And his two listeners drew back in horror at the misty implications. Neither understood, fully or clearly, but the menace of the phrase was definite.
The captain continued, “He is a mutant, and obviously from his subsequent career, a highly successful one. I don’t know his powers or the exact extent to which he is what our thrillers would call a ‘superman,’ but the rise from nothing to the conqueror of Kalgan’s warlord in two years is revealing. You see, don’t you, the danger? Can a genetic accident of unpredictable biological properties be taken into account in the Seldon plan?”
Slowly, Bayta spoke, “I don’t believe it. This is some sort of complicated trickery. Why didn’t the Mule’s men kill us when they could have, if he’s a superman?”
“I told you that I don’t know the extent of his mutation. He may not be ready, yet, for the Foundation, and it would be a sign of the greatest wisdom to resist provocation until ready. Now let me speak to the clown.”
The captain faced the trembling Magnifico, who obviously distrusted this huge, hard man who faced him.
The captain began slowly, “Have you seen the Mule with your own eyes?”
“I have but too well, respected sir. And felt the weight of his arm with my own body as well.”
“I have no doubt of that. Can you describe him?”
“It is frightening to recall him, respected sir. He is a man of mighty frame. Against him, even you would be but a spindling. His hair is of a burning crimson, and with all my strength and weight I could not pull down his arm, once extended—not a hair’s thickness.” Magnifico’s thinness seemed to collapse upon itself in a huddle of arms and legs. “Often, to amuse his generals or to amuse only himself, he would suspend me by one finger in my belt from a fearful height, while I chattered poetry. It was only after the twentieth verse that I was withdrawn, and each improvised and each a perfect rhyme, or else start over. He is a man of overpowering might, respected sir, and cruel in the use of his power—and his eyes, respected sir, no one sees.”
“What? What’s that last?”
“He wears spectacles, respected sir, of a curious nature. It is said that they are opaque and that he sees by a powerful magic that far transcends human powers. I have heard,” and his voice was small and mysterious, “that to see his eyes is to see death; that he kills with his eyes, respected sir.”
Magnifico’s eyes wheeled quickly from one watching face to another. He quavered, “It is true. As I live, it is true.”
Bayta drew a long breath, “Sounds like you’re right, captain. Do you want to take over?”
“Well, let’s look at the situation. You don’t owe anything here? The hangar’s barrier above is free?”
“I can leave any time.”
“Then leave. The Mule may not wish to antagonize the Foundation, but he runs a frightful risk in letting Magnifico get away. It probably accounts for the hue and cry after the poor devil in the first place.