His face grew solemn.
"And never forget there was another Foundation established eighty years ago; a Foundation at the other end of the Galaxy, at Star's End.
They will always be there for consideration. Gentlemen, nine hundred and twenty years of the Plan stretch ahead of you.
The problem is yours!"
He dropped his eyes to his book and flicked out of existence, while the lights brightened to fullness.
In the babble that followed, Lee leaned over to Hardin's ear.
"He didn't say when he'd be back."
Hardin replied, "I know - but I trust he won't return until you and I are safely and cozily dead!"
Part IV
The Traiders 1.
TRADERS-… and constantly in advance of the political hegemony of the Foundation were the Traders, reaching out tenuous fingerholds through the tremendous distances of the Periphery.
Months or years might pass between landings on Terminus; their ships were often nothing more than patchquilts of home-made repairs and improvisations; their honesty was none of the highest; their daring…
Through it all they forged an empire more enduring than the pseudo-religious despotism of the Four Kingdoms…
Tales without end are told of these massive, lonely figures who bore half-seriously, half-mockingly a motto adopted from one of Salvor Hardin's epigrams,
"Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right!"
It is difficult now to tell which tales are real and which apocryphal.
There are none probably that have not suffered some exaggeration…
Encyclopedia Galactica
Limmar Ponyets was completely a-lather when the call reached his receiver - which proves that the old bromide about telemessages and the shower holds true even in the dark, hard space of the Galactic Periphery.
Luckily that part of a free-lance trade ship which is not given over to miscellaneous merchandise is extremely snug.
So much so, that the shower, hot water included, is located in a two-by-four cubby, ten feet from the control panels.
Ponyets heard the staccato rattle of the receiver quite plainly. Dripping suds and a growl, he stepped out to adjust the vocal, and three hours later a second trade ship was alongside, and a grinning youngster entered through the air tube between the ships.
Ponyets rattled his best chair forward and perched himself on the pilot-swivel.
"What've you been doing, Gorm?" he asked, darkly.
"Chasing me all the way from the Foundation?"
Les Gorm broke out a cigarette, and shook his head definitely,
"Me?
Not a chance.
I'm just a sucker who happened to land on Glyptal IV the day after the mail.
So they sent me out after you with this."
The tiny, gleaming sphere changed hands, and Gorm added,
"It's confidential. Super-secret.
Can't be trusted to the sub-ether and all that.
Or so I gather.
At least, it's a Personal Capsule, and won't open for anyone but you."
Ponyets regarded the capsule distastefully,
"I can see that.
And I never knew one of these to hold good news, either."
It opened in his hand and the thin, transparent tape unrolled stiffly.
His eyes swept the message quickly, for when the last of the tape had emerged, the first was already brown and crinkled.
In a minute and a half it had turned black and, molecule by molecule, fallen apart.
Ponyets grunted hollowly, "Oh, Galaxy!"
Les Gorm said quietly, "Can I help somehow? Or is it too secret?"
"It will bear telling, since you're of the Guild.
I've got to go to Askone."
"That place?
How come?"
"They've imprisoned a trader.
But keep it to yourself.''
Gorm's expression jolted into anger,