Foundation

"And where do you think he's taking us? To his mining estates on the outskirts of Askone, that's where. Listen!" Ponyets was suddenly fiery, "I told you I was in this to make money, not to save worlds. All right. I sold that transmuter for nothing. Nothing except the risk of the gas chamber and that doesn't count towards the quota."

"Get back to the mining estates, Ponyets. Where do they come in?"

"With the profits. We're stacking up on tin, Gorov. Tin to fill every last cubic foot this old scow can scrape up, and then some more for yours. I'm going down with Pherl to collect, old man, and you're going to cover me from upstairs with every gun you've got - just in case Pherl isn't as sporting about the matter as he lets on to be. That tin's my profit."

"For the transmuter?"

"For my entire cargo of nucleics. At double price, plus a bonus." He shrugged, almost apologetically. "I admit I gouged him, but I've got to make quota, don't I?"

Gorov was evidently lost. He said, weakly, "Do you mind explaining'?"

"What's there to explain? It's obvious, Gorov. Look, the clever dog thought he had me in a foolproof trap, because his word was worth more than mine to the Grand Master. He took the transmuter. That was a capital crime in Askone. But at any time he could say that he had lured me on into a trap with the purest of patriotic motives, and denounce me as a seller of forbidden things."

"That was obvious."

"Sure, but word against simple word wasn't all there was to it. You see, Pherl had never heard nor conceived of a microfilm-recorder."

Gorov laughed suddenly.

"That's right," said Ponyets. "He had the upper hand. I was properly chastened. But when I set up the transmuter for him in my whipped-dog fashion, I incorporated the recorder into the device and removed it in the next day's overhaul. I had a perfect record of his sanctum sanctorum, his holy-of-holies, with he himself, poor Pherl, operating the transmuter for all the ergs it had and crowing over his first piece of gold as if it were an egg he had just laid."

"You showed him the results?"

"Two days later. The poor sap had never seen three-dimensional color-sound images in his life. He claims he isn't superstitious, but if I ever saw an adult look as scared as he did then, call me rookie. When I told him I had a recorder planted in the city square, set to go off at midday with a million fanatical Askonians to watch, and to tear him to pieces subsequently, he was gibbering at my knees in half a second. He was ready to make any deal I wanted."

"Did you?" Gorov's voice was suppressing laughter. "I mean, have one planted in the city square."

"No, but that didn't matter. He made the deal. He bought every gadget I had, and every one you had for as much tin as we could carry. At that moment, he believed me capable of anything. The agreement is in writing and you'll have a copy before I go down with him, just as another precaution."

"But you've damaged his ego," said Gorov. "Will he use the gadgets?"

"Why not? It's his only way of recouping his losses, and if he makes money out of it, he'll salve his pride. And he will be the next Grand Master - and the best man we could have in our favor."

"Yes," said Gorov, "it was a good sale. Yet you've certainly got an uncomfortable sales technique. No wonder you were kicked out of a seminary. Have you no sense of morals?"

"What are the odds?" said Ponyets, indifferently. "You know what Salvor Hardin said about a sense of morals."

Part V The Merchant Princes

1.

TRADERS-… With psychohistoric inevitability. economic control of the Foundation grew. The traders grew rich; and with riches came power…

It is sometimes forgotten that Hober Mallow began life as an ordinary trader. It is never forgotten that he ended it as the first of the Merchant Princes…

Encyclopedia Galactica

Jorane Sutt put the tips of carefully-manicured fingers together and said, "It's something of a puzzle. In fact - and this is in the strictest of confidence - it may be another one of Hari Seldon's crises."

The man opposite felt in the pocket of his short Smyrnian jacket for a cigarette. "Don't know about that, Sutt. As a general rule, politicians start shouting 'Seldon crisis' at every mayoralty campaign."

Sutt smiled very faintly, "I'm not campaigning, Mallow. We're facing nuclear weapons, and we don't know where they're coming from."

Hober Mallow of Smyrno, Master Trader, smoked quietly, almost indifferently. "Go on. If you have more to say, get it out." Mallow never made the mistake of being overpolite to a Foundation man. He might be an Outlander, but a man's a man for a’ that.