Foundation - Isaac Asimov [38]
Verisof nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard arguments almost as complicated in the Temples back on Anacreon. How do you expect to spot the right moment of action?”
“It’s spotted already. You admit that once we repair the battle cruiser nothing will stop Wienis from attacking us. There will no longer be any alternative in that respect.”
“Yes.”
“All right. That accounts for the external aspect. Meanwhile, you’ll further admit that the next election will see a new and hostile Council that will force action against Anacreon. There is no alternative there.”
“Yes.”
“And as soon as all the alternatives disappear, the crisis has come. Just the same—I get worried.”
He paused, and Verisof waited. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hardin continued. “I’ve got the idea—just a notion—that the external and internal pressures were planned to come to a head simultaneously. As it is, there’s a few months difference. Wienis will probably attack before spring, and elections are still a year off.”
“That doesn’t sound important.”
“I don’t know. It may be due merely to unavoidable errors of calculation, or it might be due to the fact that I knew too much. I tried never to let my foresight influence my action, but how can I tell? And what effect will the discrepancy have? Anyway,” he looked up, “there’s one thing I’ve decided.”
“And what’s that?”
“When the crisis does begin to break, I’m going to Anacreon. I want to be on the spot. . . . Oh, that’s enough, Verisof. It’s getting late. Let’s go out and make a night of it. I want some relaxation.”
“Then get it right here,” said Verisof. “I don’t want to be recognized, or you know what this new party your precious Councilmen are forming would say. Call for the brandy.”
And Hardin did—but not for too much.
3
In the ancient days when the Galactic Empire had embraced the Galaxy, and Anacreon had been the richest of the prefects of the Periphery, more than one emperor had visited the Viceregal Palace in state. And not one had left without at least one effort to pit his skill with air speedster and needle gun against the feathered flying fortress they call the Nyakbird.
The fame of Anacreon had withered to nothing with the decay of the times. The Viceregal Palace was a drafty mass of ruins except for the wing that Foundation workmen had restored. And no Emperor had been seen in Anacreon for two hundred years.
But Nyak hunting was still the royal sport and a good eye with the needle gun still the first requirement of Anacreon’s kings.
Lepold I, King of Anacreon and—as was invariably, but untruthfully added—Lord of the Outer Dominions, though not yet sixteen had already proved his skill many times over. He had brought down his first Nyak when scarcely thirteen; had brought down his tenth the week after his accession to the throne; and was returning now from his forty-sixth.
“Fifty before I come of age,” he had exulted. “Who’ll take the wager?”
But courtiers don’t take wagers against the king’s skill. There is the deadly danger of winning. So no one did, and the king left to change his clothes in high spirits.
“Lepold!”
The king stopped mid-step at the one voice that could cause him to do so. He turned sulkily.
Wienis stood upon the threshold of his chambers and beetled at his young nephew.
“Send them away,” he motioned impatiently. “Get rid of them.”
The king nodded curtly and the two chamberlains bowed and backed down the stairs. Lepold entered his uncle’s room.
Wienis stared at the king’s hunting suit morosely. “You’ll have more important things to tend to than Nyak