Second Foundation - Isaac Asimov [81]
“Over?” repeated Pappa, with false heartiness. “Who said it was over? In war, lots of things can happen. And . . . and—”
“Sit down, darling,” said Mamma, soothingly. “No one should talk before breakfast. You’re not in a healthy condition with no food in the stomach.”
But Arcadia ignored her. “Are the Kalganians on Terminus?”
“No,” said Pappa, seriously. “The news is from last week, and Terminus is still fighting. This is honest. I’m telling the truth. And the Foundation is still strong. Do you want me to get you the newspapers?”
“Yes!”
She read them over what she could eat of her breakfast and her eyes blurred as she read. Santanni and Korell were gone—without a fight. A squadron of the Foundation’s navy had been trapped in the sparsely-sunned Ifni sector and wiped out to almost the last ship.
And now the Foundation was back to the Four-Kingdom core—the original Realm which had been built up under Salvor Hardin, the first mayor. But still it fought—and still there might be a chance—and whatever happened, she must inform her father. She must somehow reach his ear. She must!
But how? With a war in the way.
She asked Pappa after breakfast, “Are you going out on a new mission soon, Mr. Palver?”
Pappa was on the large chair on the front lawn, sunning himself. A fat cigar smoldered between his plump fingers and he looked like a beatific pug-dog.
“A mission?” he repeated, lazily. “Who knows? It’s a nice vacation and my leave isn’t up. Why talk about new missions? You’re restless, Arkady?”
“Me? No, I like it here. You’re very good to me, you and Mrs. Palver.”
He waved his hand at her, brushing away her words.
Arcadia said, “I was thinking about the war.”
“But don’t think about it. What can you do? If it’s something you can’t help, why hurt yourself over it?”
“But I was thinking that the Foundation has lost most of its farming worlds. They’re probably rationing food there.”
Pappa looked uncomfortable. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”
She scarcely listened. “I wish I could carry food to them, that’s what. You know after the Mule died, and the Foundation rebelled, Terminus was just about isolated for a time and General Han Pritcher, who succeeded the Mule for a while, was laying siege to it. Food was running awfully low and my father says that his father told him that they only had dry amino-acid concentrates that tasted terrible. Why, one egg cost two hundred credits. And then they broke the siege just in time and food ships came through from Santanni. It must have been an awful time. Probably it’s happening all over, now.”
There was a pause, and then Arcadia said, “You know, I’ll bet the Foundation would be willing to pay smuggler’s prices for food now. Double and triple and more. Gee, if any co-operative, f’r instance, here on Trantor took over the job, they might lose some ships, but I’ll bet they’d be war millionaires before it was over. The Foundation Traders in the old days used to do that all the time. There’d be a war, so they’d sell whatever was needed bad and take their chances. Golly, they used to make as much as two million credits out of one trip—profit. That was just out of what they could carry on one ship, too.”
Pappa stirred. His cigar had gone out, unnoticed. “A deal for food, huh? Hm-m-m— But the Foundation is so far away.”
“Oh, I know. I guess you couldn’t do it from here. If you took a regular liner you probably couldn’t get closer than Massena or Smushyk, and after that you’d have to hire a small scoutship or something to slip you through the lines.”
Pappa’s hand brushed at his hair, as he calculated.
Two weeks later, arrangements for the mission were completed. Mamma railed for most of the time—First, at the incurable obstinacy with which he courted suicide. Then, at the incredible obstinacy with which he refused to allow her to accompany him.
Pappa said, “Mamma, why do you act like an old lady? I can’t take you. It’s a man’s work. What do you think a war is? Fun? Child’s play?”
“Then why do you go?