Foundation and Empire - Isaac Asimov [74]
And found what was left of the underground.
The city was Newton, the district a residential one of onetime elegance slowly edging towards squalor, the house an undistinguished member of a row, and the man a small-eyed, big-boned person whose knotted fists bulged through his pockets and whose wiry body remained unbudgingly in the narrow door opening.
The captain mumbled, “I come from Miran.”
The man returned the gambit, grimly. “Miran is early this year.”
The captain said, “No earlier than last year.”
But the man did not step aside. He said, “Who are you?”
“Aren’t you Fox?”
“Do you always answer by asking?”
The captain took an imperceptibly longer breath, and then said calmly, “I am Han Pritcher, Captain of the Fleet, and member of the Democratic Underground Party. Will you let me in?”
The Fox stepped aside. He said, “My real name is Orum Palley.”
He held out his hand. The captain took it.
The room was well kept, but not lavish. In one corner stood a decorative book-film projector, which to the captain’s military eyes might easily have been a camouflaged blaster of respectable caliber. The projecting lens covered the doorway, and such could be remotely controlled.
The Fox followed his bearded guest’s eyes, and smiled tightly. He said, “Yes! But only in the days of Indbur and his lackey-hearted vampires. It wouldn’t do much against the Mule, eh? Nothing would help against the Mule. Are you hungry?”
The captain’s jaw muscles tightened beneath his beard, and he nodded.
“It’ll take a minute if you don’t mind waiting.” The Fox removed cans from a cupboard and placed two before Captain Pritcher. “Keep your finger on it, and break them when they’re hot enough. My heat-control unit’s out of whack. Things like that remind you there’s a war on—or was on, eh?”
His quick words had a jovial content, but were said in anything but a jovial tone—and his eyes were coldly thoughtful. He sat down opposite the captain and said, “There’ll be nothing but a burn-spot left where you’re sitting, if there’s anything about you I don’t like. Know that?”
The captain did not answer. The cans before him opened at a pressure.
The Fox said, shortly, “Stew! Sorry, but the food situation is short.”
“I know,” said the captain. He ate quickly, not looking up.
The Fox said, “I once saw you. I’m trying to remember, and the beard is definitely out of the picture.”
“I haven’t shaved in thirty days.” Then, fiercely, “What do you want? I had the correct passwords. I have identification.”
The other waved a hand, “Oh, I’ll grant you’re Pritcher all right. But there are plenty who have the passwords, and the identifications, and the identities—who are with the Mule. Ever hear of Levvaw, eh?”
“Yes.”
“He’s with the Mule.”
“What? He—”
“Yes. He was the man they called ‘No Surrender.’” The Fox’s lips made laughing motions, with neither sound nor humor. “Then there’s Willig. With the Mule! Garre and Noth. With the Mule! Why not Pritcher as well, eh? How would I know?”
The captain merely shook his head.
“But it doesn’t matter,” said the Fox, softly. “They must have my name, if Noth has gone over—so if you’re legitimate, you’re in more new danger than I am over our acquaintanceship.”
The captain had finished eating. He leaned back, “If you have no organization here, where can I find one? The Foundation may have surrendered, but I haven’t.”
“So! You can’t wander forever, captain. Men of the Foundation must have travel permits to move from town to town these days. You know that? Also identity cards. You have one? Also, all officers of the old Navy have been requested to report to the nearest occupation headquarters. That’s you, eh?”
“Yes.” The captain’s voice was hard. “Do you think I run through fear? I was on Kalgan not long after its fall to the Mule. Within a month, not one of the old warlord’s officers was at large, because they were the natural military leaders of any revolt. It’s always been the underground’s knowledge that no revolution can be