Twer looked up, "Are you on the track of anything?"
"No."
"You have definite plans?"
"Not the faintest inkling of one."
"Well"
"Well, nothing. Hardin once said: 'To succeed, planning alone is insufficient. One must improvise as well.' I'll improvise."
Twer shook his head uncertainly, and they stood, looking at each other.
Mallow said, quite suddenly, but quite matter-of-factly, "I tell you what, how about coming with me? Don't stare, man. You've been a trader before you decided them was more excitement in politics. Or so I've heard."
"Where are you going? Tell me that."
Towards the Whassallian Rift. I can't be more specific till we're out in space. What do you say?"
Suppose Sutt decides he wants me where he can see
"Not likely. If he's anxious to get rid of me, why not of you as well? Besides which, no trader would hit space if he couldn't pick his own crew. I take whom I please."
There was a queer glint in the older man's eyes, "All right. I'll go." He held out his hand, "It'll be my first trip in three years."
Mallow grasped and shook the other's hand, "Good! All fired good! And now I've got to round up the boys. You know where the Far Star docks, don 't you? Then show up tomorrow. Good-by."
4.
Korell is that frequent phenomenon in history: the republic whose ruler has every attribute of the absolute monarch but the name. It therefore enjoyed the usual despotism unrestrained even by those two moderating influences in the legitimate monarchies: regal "honor" and court etiquette.
Materially, its prosperity was low. The day of the Galactic Empire had departed, with nothing but silent memorials and broken structures to testify to it. The day of the Foundation had not yet come and in the fierce determination of its ruler, the Commdor Asper Argo, with his strict regulation of the traders and his stricter prohibition of the missionaries, it was never coming.
The spaceport itself was decrepit and decayed, and the crew of the Far Star were drearily aware of that. The moldering hangars made for a moldering atmosphere and Jaim Twer itched and fretted over a game of solitaire.
Hober Mallow said thoughtfully, "Good trading material here." He was staring quietly out the viewport. So far, there was little else to be said about Korell. The trip here was uneventful. The squadron of Korellian ships that had shot out to intercept the Far Star had been tiny, limping relics of ancient glory or battered, clumsy hulks. They had maintained their distance fearfully, and still maintained it, and for a week now, Mallow's requests for an audience with the local go government had been unanswered.
Mallow repeated, "Good trading here. You might call this virgin territory."
Jaim Twer looked up impatiently, and threw his cards aside, "What the devil do you intend doing, Mallow? The crew's grumbling, the officers are worried, and I抦 wondering"
"Wondering? About what?"
"About the situation. And about you. What are we doing?"
"Waiting."
The old trader snorted and grew red. He growled, "You're going it blind, Mallow. There's a guard around the field and there are ships overhead. Suppose they're getting ready to blow us into a hole in the ground."
"They've had a week."
"Maybe they're waiting for reinforcements." Twer's eyes were sharp and hard.
Mallow sat down abruptly, "Yes, I'd thought of that You see, it poses a pretty problem. First, we got here without trouble. That may mean nothing, however, for only three ships out of better than three hundred went a-glimmer last year. The percentage is low. But that may mean also that the number of their ships equipped with nuclear power is small, and that they dare not expose them needlessly, until that number grows.
"But it could mean, on the other hand, that they haven't nuclear power after all. Or maybe they have and are keeping undercover, for fear we know something. It's one thing, after all, to piratize blundering, light-armed merchant ships. It's another to fool around with an accredited envoy of the Foundation when the mere fact of his presence may mean the Foundation is growing suspicious.
"Combine this"
"Hold on, Mallow, hold on." Twer raised his hands. "You're just about drowning me with talk. What're you getting at? Never mind the in-betweens."
"You've got to have the in-betweens, or you won't understand, Twer. We're both waiting. They don't know what I'm doing here and I don't know what they've got here. But I'm in the weaker position because I'm one and they're an entire world maybe with atomic power. I can't afford to be the one to weaken. Sure it's dangerous. Sure there may be a hole in the ground waiting for us. But we knew that from the start. What else is there to do?"
"I don't Who's that, now?"
Mallow looked up patiently, and tuned the receiver. The visiplate glowed into the craggy face of the watch sergeant.
"Speak, sergeant."
The sergeant said, "Pardon, sir. The men have given entry to a Foundation missionary."
"A what?" Mallow's face grew livid.
"A missionary, sit. He's in need of hospitalization, sir-"
"There'll be more than one in need of that, sergeant, for this piece of work. Order the men to battle stations."
Crew's lounge was almost empty. Five minutes after the order, even the men on the off-shift were at their guns. It was speed that was the great virtue in the anarchic regions of the interstellar space of the Periphery, and it was in speed above all that the crew of a master trader excelled.
Mallow entered slowly, and stared the missionary up and down and around. His eye slid to Lieutenant Tinter, who shifted uneasily to one side and to Watch-Sergeant Demen, whose blank face and stolid figure flanked the other.