turned again. An Elder had opened the door silently and stood with a dignified and calm respect upon the threshold.
He said, ‘His Excellency, Governor of Rossem, in the name of the Lords of Tazenda, is pleased to present his permission for an audience and request your appearance before him.’
‘Sure thing,’ and Channis tightened his belt with a jerk and adjusted a Rossemian hood over his head.
Pritcher’s jaw set. This was the beginning of the real gamble.
The governor of Rossem was not of formidable appearance. For one thing, he was bareheaded, and his thinning hair, light brown, tending to grey, lent him mildness. His bony eye-ridges lowered at them, and his eyes, set in a fine network of surrounding wrinkles, seemed calculating, but his fresh-cropped chin was soft and small and, by the universal convention of followers of the pseudoscience of reading character by facial bony structure, seemed ‘weak.’
Pritcher avoided the eyes and watched the chin. He didn’t know whether that would be effective – if anything would be.
The governor’s voice was high-pitched, indifferent: ‘Welcome to Tazenda. We greet you in peace. You have eaten?’
His hand – long fingers, gnarled veins – waved almost regally at the U-shaped table.
They bowed and sat down. The governor sat at the outer side of the base of the U, they on the inner; along both arms sat the double row of silent Elders.
The governor spoke in short, abrupt sentences – praising the food as Tazendian importations – and it had indeed a quality different if, somehow, not so much better, than the rougher food of the Elders – disparaging Rossemian weather, referring with an attempt at casualness to the intricacies of space travel.
Channis talked little, Pritcher not at all.
Then it was over. The small, stewed fruits were finished; the napkins used and discarded, and the governor leaned back.
His small eyes sparkled.
‘I have inquired as to your ship. Naturally, I would like to see that it receives due care and overhaul. I am told its whereabouts are unknown.’
‘True,’ Channis replied lightly. ‘We have left it in space. It is a large ship, suitable for long journeys in sometimes hostile regions, and we felt that landing it here might give rise to doubts as to our peaceful intentions. We preferred to land alone, unarmed.’
‘A friendly act,’ commented the governor, without conviction. ‘A large ship, you say?’
‘Not a vessel of war, excellency.’
‘Ha, hum. Where is it you come from?’
‘A small world of the Santanni sector, your excellency. It may be you are not aware of its existence for it lacks importance. We are interested in establishing trade relationships.’
‘Trade, eh? And what have you to sell?’
‘Machines of all sorts, excellency. In return, food, wood, ores—’
‘Ha, hum.’ The governor seemed doubtful. ‘I know little of these matters. Perhaps mutual profit may be arranged. Perhaps, after I have examined your credentials at length – for much information will be required by my government before matters may proceed, you understand – and after I have looked over your ship, it would be advisable for you to proceed to Tazenda.’
There was no answer to that, and the governor’s attitude iced perceptibly.
‘It is necessary that I see your ship, however.’
Channis said distantly: ‘The ship, unfortunately, is undergoing repairs at the moment. If your excellency would not object to giving us forty-eight hours, it will be at your service.’
‘I am not accustomed to waiting.’
For the first time, Pritcher met the glare of the other, eye to eye, and his breath exploded softly inside him. For a moment, he had the sensation of drowning, but then his eyes tore away.
Channis did not waver. He said: ‘The ship cannot be landed for forty-eight hours, excellency. We are here and unarmed. Can you doubt our honest intentions?’
There was a long silence, and then the governor said gruffly: ‘Tell me of the world from which you come.’
That was all. It passed with that. There was no more unpleasantness. The governor, having fulfilled his official duty, apparently lost interest and the audience died a full death.
And when it was all over, Pritcher found himself back in their quarters and took stock of himself.
Carefully – holding his breath – he ‘felt’ his emotions. Certainly he seemed no different to himself, but would he feel any difference? Had he felt different after the Mule’s conversion? Had not everything seemed natural? As it should have been.
He experimented.
With cold purpose, he shouted inside the silent caverns of his mind, and the shout was, ‘The Second Foundation must be discovered and destroyed.’
And the emotion that accompanied it was honest hate. There was not as much as a hesitation involved in it.
And then it was in his mind to substitute the word ‘Mule’ for the phrase ‘Second Foundation’ and his breath caught at the mere emotion and his tongue clogged.
So far, good.
But had he been handled otherwise – more subtly? Had tiny changes been made? Changes that he couldn’t detect because their very existence warped his judgement.
There was no way to tell.
But he still felt absolute loyalty to the Mule! If that were unchanged, nothing else really mattered.
He turned his mind to action again. Channis was busy at his end of the room. Pritcher’s thumbnail idled at his wrist communicator.
And then at the response that came he felt a wave of relief surge over him and leave him weak.
The quiet muscles of his face did not betray him, but inside he was shouting with joy – and when Channis turned to face him, he knew that the farce was about over.
FOURTH INTERLUDE
The two Speakers passed each other on the road and one stopped the other.
‘I have word from the First Speaker.’
There was a half-apprehensive flicker in the other’s eyes. ‘Intersection point?’
‘Yes! May we live to see the dawn!’
There
