Foundation and Empire by Isaac Asimov Page A

nothing from him.”
    “Unless you count a special envoy as something.”
    “And why a special envoy?”
    “It’s an old custom. A direct representative of the crown is present on every military campaign which is under government auspices.”
    “Really? Why?”
    “It’s a method of preserving the symbol of personal Imperial leadership in all campaigns. It’s gained a secondary function of insuring the fidelity of generals. It doesn’t always succeed in that respect.”
    “You’ll find that inconvenient, general. Extraneous authority, I mean.”
    “I don’t doubt that,” Riose reddened faintly, “but it can’t be helped–“
    The receiver at the general’s hand glowed warmly, and with an unobtrusive jar, the cylindered communication popped into its slot. Riose unrolled it, “Good! This is it!”
    Ducem Barr raised a mildly questioning eyebrow.
    Riose said, “You know we’ve captured one of these Trader people. Alive – and with his ship intact.”
    “I’ve heard talk of it.”
    “Well, they’ve just brought him in, and we’ll have him here in a minute. You keep your seat, patrician. I want you here when I’m questioning him. It’s why I asked you here today in the first place. You may understand him where I might miss important points.”
    The door signal sounded and a touch of the general’s toe swung the door wide. The man who stood on the threshold was tall and bearded, wore a short coat of a soft, leathery plastic, with an attached hood shoved back on his neck. His hands were free, and if he noticed the men about him were armed, he did not trouble to indicate it.
    He stepped in casually, and looked about with calculating eyes. He favored the general with a rudimentary wave of the hand and a half nod.
    “Your name?” demanded Riose, crisply.
    “Lathan Devers.” The trader hooked his thumbs into his wide and gaudy belt. “Are you the boss here?”
    “You are a trader of the Foundation?”
    “That’s right. Listen, if you’re the boss, you’d better tell your hired men here to lay off my cargo.”
    The general raised his head and regarded the prisoner coldly. “Answer questions. Do not volunteer orders.”
    “All right. I’m agreeable. But one of your boys blasted a two-foot hole in his chest already, by sticking his fingers where he wasn’t supposed to.”
    Riose shifted his gaze to the lieutenant in charge. “Is this man telling the truth? Your report, Vrank, had it that no lives were lost.”
    “None were, sir,” the lieutenant spoke stiffly, apprehensively, “at the time. There was later some disposition to search the ship, there having arisen a rumor that a woman was aboard. Instead, sir, many instruments of unknown nature were located, instruments which the prisoner claims to be his stock in trade. One of them flashed on handling, and the soldier holding it died.”
    The general turned back to the trader. “Does your ship carry nuclear explosives?”
    “Galaxy, no. What for? That fool grabbed a nuclear puncher, wrong end forward and set at maximum dispersion. You’re not supposed to do that. Might as well point a neut-gun at your head. I’d have stopped him, if five men weren’t sitting on my chest.”
    Riose gestured at the waiting guard, “You go. The captured ship is to he sealed against all intrusion. Sit down, Devers.”
    The trader did so, in the spot indicated, and withstood stolidly the hard scrutiny of the Imperial general and the curious glance of the Siwennian patrician.
    Riose said, “You’re a sensible man, Devers.”
    “Thank you. Are you impressed by my face, or do you want something? Tell you what, though. I’m a good business man.”
    “It’s about the same thing. You surrendered your ship when you might have decided to waste our ammunition and have yourself blown to electron-dust. It could result in good treatment for you, if you continue that sort of outlook on life.”
    “Good treatment is what I mostly crave, boss.”
    “Good, and