The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF (62 page)

“No profit at all, unless you can fulfill such a threat.”

“It’s trial for murder.”

“Whose murder?” asked Mallow, contemptuously.

Sutt’s voice was harsh now, though no louder than before, “The murder of an Anacreonian priest, in the service of the Foundation.”

“Is that so now? And what’s your evidence?”

The secretary to the mayor leaned forward. “Mallow, I’m not bluffing. The preliminaries are over. I have only to sign one final paper and the case of the Foundation versus Hober Mallow, Master Trader, is begun. You abandoned a subject of the Foundation to torture and death at the hands of an alien mob, Mallow, and you have only five seconds to prevent the punishment due you. For myself, I’d rather you decided to bluff it out. You’d be safer as a destroyed enemy, than as a doubtfully-converted friend.”

Mallow said solemnly, “You have your wish.”

“Good!” and the secretary smiled savagely. “It was the mayor who wished the preliminary attempt at compromise, not I. Witness that I did not try too hard.”

The door opened before him, and he left.

Mallow looked up as Ankor Jael re-entered the room.

Mallow said, “Did you hear him?”

The politician flopped to the floor. “I never heard him as angry as that, since I’ve known the snake.”

“All right. What do you make of it?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. A foreign policy of domination through spiritual means is his
idée fixe
, but it’s my notion that his ultimate aims aren’t spiritual. I was fired out of the Cabinet for arguing on the same issue, as I needn’t tell you.”

“You needn’t. And what are those unspiritual aims according to your notion?”

Jael grew serious. ‘Well, he’s not stupid, so he must see the bankruptcy of our religious policy, which has hardly made a single conquest for us in seventy years. He’s obviously using it for purposes of his own.

“Now
any
dogma, primarily based on faith and emotionalism, is a dangerous weapon to use on others, since it is almost impossible to guarantee that the weapon will never be turned on the user. For a hundred years now, we’ve supported a ritual and mythology that is becoming more and more venerable, traditional – and immovable. In some ways, it isn’t under our control any more.”

“In what ways?” demanded Mallow. “Don’t stop. I want your thoughts.”

“Well, suppose one man, one ambitious man, uses the force of religion against us, rather than for us.”

“You mean Sutt—”

“You’re right. I mean Sutt. Listen, man, if he could mobilize the various hierarchies on the subject planets against the Foundation in the name of orthodoxy, what chance would we stand? By planting himself at the head of the standards of the pious, he could make war on heresy, as represented by you, for instance, and make himself king eventually. After all, it was Hardin who said: ‘An atom-blaster is a good weapon, but it can point both ways.’ ”

Mallow slapped his bare thigh. “All right, Jael, then get me in that council, and I’ll fight him.”

Jael paused, then said significantly, “Maybe not. What was all that about having a priest lynched? It isn’t true, is it?”

“It’s true enough,” Mallow said, carelessly.

Jael whistled. “Has he definite proof?”

“He should have.” Mallow hesitated, then added, “Jaim Twer was his man from the beginning, though neither of them knew that I knew that. And Jaim Twer was an eyewitness.”

Jael shook his head. “Uh-uh. That’s bad.”

“Bad? What’s bad about it? That priest was illegally upon the planet by the Foundation’s own laws. He was obviously used by the Korellian government as a bait, whether involuntary or not. By all the laws of commonsense, I had no choice but one action – and that action was strictly within the law. If he brings me to trial, he’ll do nothing but make a prime fool of himself.”

And Jael shook his head again. “No, Mallow, you’ve missed it. I told you he played dirty. He’s not out to convict you; he knows he can’t do that. But he
is
out to ruin your standing with the people. You heard what he said. Custom
is
higher than law, at times. You could walk out of the trial scot-free, but if the people think you threw a priest to the dogs, your popularity is gone.

“They’ll admit you did the legal thing, even the sensible thing. But just the same you’ll have been, in their eyes, a cowardly dog, an unfeeling brute, a hard-hearted monster.
And
you would never get elected to the council. You might even lose your rating as Master Trader by having your citizenship voted away from you. You’re not native born, you know. What more do you think Sutt can want?”

Mallow frowned stubbornly. “So!”

“My boy,” said Jael, “I’ll stand by you, but
I
can’t help. You’re on the spot – dead center.”

The council chamber was full in a very literal sense on the fourth day of the trial of Hober Mallow, Master Trader. The only council man absent was feebly cursing the fractured skull that had bedridden him. The galleries were filled to the aisleways and ceilings with those few of the crowd who by influence, wealth, or sheer diabolic perseverance had managed to get in. The rest filled the square outside, in swarming knots about the open-air trimensional ‘visors.

Ankor Jael made his way into the chamber with the near-futile aid and exertions of the police department, and then through the scarcely smaller confusion within to Hober Mallow’s seat.

Mallow turned with relief. “By Seldon, you cut it thin. Have you got it?”

“Here, take it,” said Jael. “It’s everything you asked for.”

“Good. How are they taking it outside?”

“They’re wild clear through.” Jael stirred uneasily. “You should never have allowed public hearings. You could have stopped them.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“There’s lynch talk. And Publis Manlio’s men on the outer planets—”

“I wanted to ask you about that, Jael. He’s stirring up the Hierachy against me, is he?”

“
Is
he? It’s the sweetest setup you ever saw. As Foreign Secretary, he handles the prosecution in a case of interstellar law. As High Priest and Primate of the Church, he rouses the fanatic hordes—”

“Well, forget it. Do you remember that Hardin quotation you threw at me last month? We’ll show them that the atom-blaster can point both ways.”

The mayor was taking his seat now and the council members were rising in respect.

Mallow whispered, “It’s my turn today. Sit here and watch the fun.”

The day’s proceedings began and fifteen minutes later, Hober Mallow stepped through a hostile whisper to the empty space before the mayor’s bench. A lone beam of light centered upon him and in the public ‘visors of the city, as well as on the myriads of private ’visors in almost every home of the Foundation’s planets, the lonely giant figure of a man stared out defiantly.

He began easily and quietly. “To save time, I will admit the truth of every point made against me by the prosecution. The story of the priest and the mob as related by them is perfectly accurate in every detail.”

There was a stirring in the chamber and a triumphant mass-snarl from the gallery. He waited patiently for silence.

“However, the picture they presented fell short of completion. I ask the privilege of supplying the completion in my own fashion. My story may seem irrelevant at first. I ask your indulgence for that.”

Mallow made no reference to the notes before him:

“I begin at the same time as the prosecution did; the day of my meetings with Jorane Sutt and Jaim Twer. What went on at those meetings you know. The conversations have been described, and to that description I have nothing to add – except my own thoughts of that day.

“They were suspicious thoughts, for the events of that day were queer. Consider. Two people, neither of whom I knew more than casually, make unnatural and somewhat unbelievable propositions to me. One, the secretary to the mayor, asks me to play the part of intelligence agent to the government in a highly confidential matter, the nature and importance of which has already been explained to you. The other, self-styled leader of a political party, asks me to run for a council seat.

“Naturally I looked for the ulterior motive. Sutt’s seemed evident. He didn’t trust me. Perhaps he thought I was selling atomic power to enemies and plotting rebellion. And perhaps he was forcing the issue, or thought he was. In that case, he would need a man of his own near me on my proposed mission, as a spy. The last thought, however, did not occur to me until later on, when Jaim Twer came on the scene.

“Consider again: Twer presents himself as a trader, retired into politics, yet I know of no details of his trading career, although my knowledge of the field is immense. And further, although Twer boasted of a lay education,
he had never heard of a Seldon crisis
.”

Hober Mallow waited to let the significance sink in and was rewarded with the first silence he had yet encountered, as the gallery caught its collective breath. That was for the inhabitants of Terminus itself. The men of the Outer Planets could hear only censored versions that would suit the requirements of religion. They would hear nothing of Seldon crises. But there would be further strokes they would not miss.

Mallow continued:

“Who here can honestly state that
any
man with a lay education can possibly be ignorant of the nature of a Seldon crisis? There is only one type of education upon the Foundation that excludes all mention of the planned history of Seldon and deals only with the man himself as a semi-mythical wizard—

“I knew at that instant Jaim Twer had never been a trader. I knew then that he was in holy orders and perhaps a full-fledged priest; and, doubtless, that for the three years he had pretended to head a political party of the traders,
he had been a bought man of forane Sutt
.

“At the moment, I struck in the dark. I did not know Sutt’s purposes with regard to myself, but since he seemed to be feeding me rope liberally, I handed him a few fathoms of my own. My notion was that Twer was to be with me on my voyage as unofficial guardian on behalf of Jorane Sutt. Well, if he didn’t get on, I knew well there’d be other devices waiting – and those others I might not catch in time. A known enemy is relatively safe. I invited Twer to come with me. He accepted.

“That, gentlemen of the council, explains two things. First, it tells you that Twer is not a friend of mine testifying against me reluctantly and for conscience’s sake, as the prosecution would have you believe. He is a spy, performing his paid job. Secondly, it explains a certain action of mine on the occasion of the first appearance of the priest whom I am accused of having murdered – an action as yet unmentioned, because unknown.”

Now there was a disturbed whispering in the council. Mallow cleared his throat theatrically, and continued:

“I hate to describe my feelings when I first heard that we had a refugee missionary on board. I even hate to remember them. Essentially, they consisted of wild uncertainty. The event struck me at the moment as a move by Sutt, and passed beyond my comprehension or calculation. I was at sea – and completely.

“There was one thing I could do. I got rid of Twer for five minutes by sending him after my officers. In his absence, I set up a Visual Recorder receiver, so that whatever happened might be preserved for future study. This was in the hope, the wild but earnest hope, that what confused me at the time might become plain upon review.

“I have gone over that Visual Record some fifty times since. I have it here with me now, and will repeat the job a fifty-first time in your presence right now.”

The mayor pounded monotonously for order, as the chamber lost its equilibrium and the gallery roared. In five million homes on Terminus, excited observers crowded their receiving sets more closely, and at the prosecutor’s own bench, Jorane Sutt shook his head coldly at the nervous high priest, while his eyes blazed fixedly on Mallow’s face.

The center of the chamber was cleared, and the lights burnt low. Ankor Jael, from his bench on the left, made the adjustments, and with a preliminary click, a scene sprang to view; in color, in three-dimensions, in every attribute of life but life itself.

There was the missionary, confused and battered, standing between the lieutenant and the sergeant. Mallow’s image waited silently, and then men filed in, Twer bringing up the rear.

The conversation played itself out, word for word. The sergeant was disciplined, and the missionary was questioned. The mob appeared, their growl could be heard, and the Revered Jord Parma made his wild appeal. Mallow drew his gun, and the missionary, as he was dragged away, lifted his arms in a mad, final curse and a tiny flash of light came and went.

The scene ended, with the officers frozen at the horror of the situation, while Twer clamped shaking hands over his ears, and Mallow calmly put his gun away.

The lights were on again; the empty space in the center of the floor was no longer even apparently full. Mallow, the real Mallow of the present, took up the burden of his narration:

“The incident, you see, is exactly as the prosecution has presented it – on the surface. I’ll explain that shortly. Jaim Twer’s emotions through the whole business show clearly a priestly education, by the way.