Foundation and Empire - Isaac Asimov [64]
The clown glanced briefly at Bayta, “Would she stay with me?”
Bayta laughed, “Of course, silly. Would it be likely that I’d leave you now that you’re on the point of becoming rich and famous?”
“It would all be yours,” he replied earnestly, “and surely the wealth of Galaxy itself would be yours before I could repay my debt to your kindness.”
“But,” said Mis, casually, “if you would first help me—”
“What is that?”
The psychologist paused, and smiled, “A little surface probe that doesn’t hurt. It wouldn’t touch but the peel of your brain.”
There was a flare of deadly fear in Magnifico’s eyes. “Not a probe. I have seen it used. It drains the mind and leaves an empty skull. The Mule did use it upon traitors and let them wander mindless through the streets, until out of mercy, they were killed.” He held up his hand to push Mis away.
“That was a psychic probe,” explained Mis, patiently, “and even that would only harm a person when misused. This probe I have is a surface probe that wouldn’t hurt a baby.”
“That’s right, Magnifico,” urged Bayta. “It’s only to help beat the Mule and keep him far away. Once that’s done, you and I will be rich and famous all our lives.”
Magnifico held out a trembling hand, “Will you hold my hand, then?”
Bayta took it in both her own, and the clown watched the approach of the burnished terminal plates with large eyes.
Ebling Mis rested carelessly on the too-lavish chair in Mayor Indbur’s private quarters, unregenerately unthankful for the condescension shown him, and watched the small mayor’s fidgeting unsympathetically. He tossed away a cigar stub and spat out a shred of tobacco.
“And, incidentally, if you want something for your next concert at Mallow Hall, Indbur,” he said, “you can dump out those electronic gadgeteers into the sewers they came from and have this little freak play the Visi-Sonor for you. Indbur—it’s out of this world.”
Indbur said peevishly, “I did not call you here to listen to your lectures on music. What of the Mule? Tell me that. What of the Mule?”
“The Mule? Well, I’ll tell you—I used a surface probe and got little. Can’t use the psychic probe because the freak is scared blind of it, so that his resistance will probably blow his unprintable mental fuses as soon as contact is made. But this is what I’ve got, if you’ll just stop tapping your fingernails—
“First place, de-stress the Mule’s physical strength. He’s probably strong, but most of the freak’s fairy tales about it are probably considerably blown up by his own fearful memory. He wears queer glasses and his eyes kill, he evidently has mental powers.”
“So much we had at the start,” commented the mayor, sourly.
“Then the probe confirms it, and from there on I’ve been working mathematically.”
“So? And how long will all this take? Your word-rattling will deafen me yet.”
“About a month, I should say, and I may have something for you. And I may not, of course. But what of it? If this is all outside Seldon’s plans, our chances are precious little, unprintable little.”
Indbur whirled on the psychologist fiercely, “Now I have you, traitor. Lie! Say you’re not one of these criminal rumormongers that are spreading defeatism and panic through the Foundation, and making my work doubly hard.”
“I? I?” Mis gathered anger slowly.
Indbur swore at him, “Because by the dust-clouds of space, the Foundation will win—the Foundation must win.”
“Despite the loss at Horleggor?”
“It was not a loss. You have swallowed that spreading lie, too? We were outnumbered and betreasoned—”
“By whom?” demanded Mis, contemptuously.
“By the lice-ridden democrats of the gutter,” shouted Indbur back at him. “I have known for long that the fleet has been riddled by democratic cells. Most have been wiped out, but enough remain for the unexplained surrender of twenty ships in the thickest of the swarming fight. Enough to force an apparent defeat.
“For that matter, my rough-tongued, simple patriot and epitome of the primitive virtues, what are your own connections with the democrats?”
Ebling