Foundation

"It's a form of ancestor worship. Their traditions tell of an evil past from which they were saved by the simple and virtuous heroes of the past generations. It amounts to a distortion of the anarchic period a century ago, when the imperial troops were driven out and an independent government was set up. Advanced science and nuclear power in particular became identified with the old imperial regime they remember with horror."

"That so? But they have nice little ships which spotted me very handily two parsecs away. That smells of nucleics to me."

Gorov shrugged. "Those ships are holdovers of the Empire, no doubt. Probably with nuclear drive. What they have, they keep. The point is that they will not innovate and their internal economy is entirely non-nuclear. That is what we must change."

"How were you going to do it?"

"By breaking the resistance at one point. To put it simply, if I could sell a penknife with a force-field blade to a nobleman, it would be to his interest to force laws that would allow him to use it. Put that baldly, it sounds silly, but it is sound, psychologically. To make strategic sales, at strategic points, would be to create a pro-nucleics faction at court."

"And they send you for that purpose, while I'm only here to ransom you and leave, while you keep on trying? Isn't that sort of tail-backward?"

"In what way?" said Gorov, guardedly.

"Listen," Ponyets was suddenly exasperated, "you're a diplomat, not a trader, and calling you a trader won't make you one. This case is for one who's made a business of selling - and I'm here with a full cargo stinking into uselessness, and a quota that won't ever be met, it looks like."

"You mean you're going to risk your life on something that isn't your business?" Gorov smiled thinly.

Ponyets said, "You mean that this is a matter of patriotism and traders aren't patriotic?"

"Notoriously not. Pioneers never are."

"All right. I'll grant that. I don't scoot about space to save the Foundation or anything like that. But I'm out to make money, and this is my chance. If it helps the Foundation at the same time, all the better. And I've risked my life on slimmer chances."

Ponyets rose, and Gorov rose with him, "What are you going to do?"

The trader smiled, "Gorov, I don't know - not yet. But if the crux of the matter is to make a sale, then I'm your man. I'm not a boaster as a general thing, but there's one thing I'll always back up. I've never ended up below quota yet."

The door to the cell opened almost instantly when he knocked, and two guards fell in on either side.

4.

"A show!" said the Grand Master, grimly. He settled himself well into his furs, and one thin hand grasped the iron cudgel he used as a cane.

"And gold, your Veneration."

"And gold," agreed the Grand Master, carelessly.

Ponyets set the box down and opened it with as fine an appearance of confidence as he could manage. He felt alone in the face of universal hostility; the way he had felt out in space his first year. The semicircle of bearded councilors who faced him down, stared unpleasantly. Among them was Pherl, the thin-faced favorite who sat next to the Grand Master in stiff hostility. Ponyets had met him once already and marked him immediately as prime enemy, and, as a consequence, prime victim.

Outside the hall, a small army awaited events. Ponyets was effectively isolated from his ship; he lacked any weapon, but his attempted bribe; and Gorov was still a hostage.

He made the final adjustments on the clumsy monstrosity that had cost him a week of ingenuity, and prayed once again that the lead-lined quartz would stand the strain.

"What is it?" asked the Grand Master.

"This," said Ponyets, stepping back, "is a small device I have constructed myself."

"That is obvious, but it is not the information I want. Is it one of the black-magic abominations of your world?"

"It is nuclear in nature, admitted Ponyets, gravely, "but none of you need touch it, or have anything to do with it. It is for myself alone, and if it contains abominations, I take the foulness of it upon myself."

The Grand Master had raised his iron cane at the machine in a threatening gesture and his lips moved rapidly and silently in a purifying invocation. The thin-faced councilor at his right leaned towards him and his straggled red mustache approached the Grand Master's ear. The ancient Askonian petulantly shrugged himself free.

"And what is the connection of your instrument of evil and the gold that may save your countryman's life?"

"With this machine," began Ponyets, as his hand dropped softly onto the central chamber and caressed its hard, round flanks, "I can turn the iron you discard into gold of the finest quality. It is the only device known to man that will take iron - the ugly iron, your Veneration, that props up the chair you sit in and the walls of this building - and change it to shining, heavy, yellow gold."