TWO MEN WITHOUT THE MULE

The ship was in near-readiness. Nothing lacked, but the destination. The Mule had suggested a return to Trantor—the world that was the hulk of an incomparable Galactic metropolis of the hugest Empire mankind had ever known—the dead world that had been capital of all the stars.

Pritcher disapproved. It was an old path—sucked dry.

He found Bail Channis in the ship’s navigation room. The young man’s curly hair was just sufficiently disheveled to allow a single curl to droop over the forehead—as if it had been carefully placed there—and even teeth showed in a smile that matched it. Vaguely, the stiff officer felt himself harden against the other.

Channis’ excitement was evident, “Pritcher, it’s too far a coincidence.”

The general said coldly: “I’m not aware of the subject of conversation.”

“Oh— Well, then drag up a chair, old man, and let’s get into it. I’ve been going over your notes. I find them excellent.”

“How … pleasant that you do.”

“But I’m wondering if you’ve come to the conclusions I have. Have you ever tried analyzing the problem deductively? I mean, it’s all very well to comb the stars at random, and to have done all you did in five expeditions is quite a bit of star-hopping. That’s obvious. But have you calculated how long it would take to go through every known world at this rate?”

“Yes. Several times.” Pritcher felt no urge to meet the young man halfway, but there was the importance of filching the other’s mind—the other’s uncontrolled, and hence, unpredictable, mind.

“Well, then, suppose we’re analytical about it and try to decide just what we’re looking for?”

“The Second Foundation,” said Pritcher, grimly.

“A Foundation of psychologists,” corrected Channis, “who are as weak in physical science as the First Foundation was weak in psychology. Well, you’re from the First Foundation, which I’m not. The implications are probably obvious to you. We must find a world which rules by virtue of mental skills, and yet which is very backwards scientifically.”

“Is that necessarily so?” questioned Pritcher, quietly. “Our own ‘Union of Worlds’ isn’t backwards scientifically, even though our ruler owes his strength to his mental powers.”

“Because he has the skills of the First Foundation to draw upon,” came the slightly impatient answer, “and that is the only such reservoir of knowledge in the Galaxy. The Second Foundation must live among the dry crumbs of the broken Galactic empire. There are no pickings there.”

“So then you postulate mental power sufficient to establish their rule over a group of worlds and physical helplessness as well?”

“Comparative physical helplessness. Against the decadent neighboring areas, they are competent to defend themselves. Against the resurgent forces of the Mule, with his background of a mature nuclear economy, they cannot stand. Else, why is their location so well-hidden, both at the start by the founder, Hari Seldon, and now by themselves? Your own First Foundation made no secret of its existence and did not have