Foundation and Empire by Isaac Asimov

area of hard, white pinpoints changed into a deepening blue. Like an inverted cup they folded about the red and the pink.
    “Those blue stars have been taken over by my forces,” said Riose with quiet satisfaction, “and they still advance. No opposition has appeared anywhere. The barbarians are quiet. And particularly, no opposition has come from Foundation forces. They sleep peacefully and well.”
    “You spread your force thinly, don’t you?” asked Barr.
    “As a matter of fact,” said Riose, “despite appearances, I don’t. The key points which I garrison and fortify are relatively few, but they are carefully chosen. The result is that the force expended is small, but the strategic result great. There are many advantages, more than would ever appear to anyone who hasn’t made a careful study of spatial tactics, but it is apparent to anyone, for instance, that I can base an attack from any point in an inclosing sphere, and that when I am finished it will be impossible for the Foundation to attack at flank or rear. I shall have no flank or rear with respect to them.
    “This strategy of the Previous Enclosure has been tried before, notably in the campaigns of Loris VI, some two thousand years ago, but always imperfectly; always with the knowledge and attempted interference of the enemy. This is different.”
    “The ideal textbook case?” Barr’s voice was languid and indifferent.
    Riose was impatient, “You still think my forces will fail?”
    “They must.”
    “You understand that there is no case in military history where an Enclosure has been completed that the attacking forces have not eventually won, except where an outside Navy exists in sufficient force to break the Enclosure.”
    “If you say so.”
    “And you still adhere to your faith.”
    “Yes.”
    Riose shrugged. “Then do so.”
    Barr allowed the angry silence to continue for a moment, then asked quietly, “Have you received an answer from the Emperor?”
    Riose removed a cigarette from a wall container behind his head, placed a filter tip between his lips and puffed it aflame carefully. He said, “You mean my request for reinforcements? It came, but that’s all. Just the answer.”
    “No ships.”
    “None. I half-expected that. Frankly, patrician, I should never have allowed myself to be stampeded by your theories into requesting them in the first place. It puts me in a false light.”
    “Does it?”
    “Definitely. Ships are at a premium. The civil wars of the last two centuries have smashed up more than half of the Grand Fleet and what’s left is in pretty shaky condition. You know it isn’t as if the ships we build these days are worth anything. I don’t think there’s a man in the Galaxy today who can build a first-rate hypernuclear motor.”
    “I knew that,” said the Siwennian. His eyes were thoughtful and introspective. “I didn’t know that you knew it. So his Imperial Majesty can spare no ships. Psychohistory could have predicted that; in fact, it probably did. I should say that Hari Seldon’s dead hand wins the opening round.”
    Riose answered sharply, “I have enough ships as it is. Your Seldon wins nothing. Should the situation turn more serious, then more ships will be available. As yet, the Emperor does not know all the story.”
    “Indeed? What haven’t you told him?”
    “Obviously – your theories.” Riose looked sardonic. “The story is, with all respect to you, inherently improbable. If developments warrant; if events supply me with proof, then, but only then, would I make out the case of mortal danger.
    “And in addition,” Riose drove on, casually, “the story, unbolstered by fact, has a flavor of lese majeste that could scarcely be pleasant to His Imperial Majesty.”
    The old patrician smiled. “You mean that telling him his august throne is in danger of subversion by a parcel of ragged barbarians from the ends of the universe is not a warning to be believed or appreciated. Then you expect