To be sure, the Foundation’s fight had not been remarkable for victories, but it was still possible to be philosophic about the matter. After six months, the hard core of the Foundation was untouched, and the hard core of the Fleet was still in being. With the new additions since the start of the war, it was almost as strong numerically, and stronger technically, than before the defeat at Ifni.
And meanwhile, planetary defenses were being strengthened; the armed forces better trained; administrative efficiency was having some of the water squeezed out of it – and much of the Kalganian’s conquering fleet was being wallowed down through the necessity of occupying the “conquered” territory.
At the moment, Turbor was with the Third Fleet in the outer reaches of the Anacreonian sector. In line with his policy of making this a “little man’s war,” he was interviewing Fennel Leemor, Engineer Third Class, volunteer.
“Tell us a little about yourself, sailor,” said Turbor.
“Ain’t much to tell,” Leemor shuffled his feet and allowed a faint, bashful smile to cover his face, as though he could see all the millions that undoubtedly could see him at the moment. I’m a Locrian. Got a job in an air-car factory; section head and good pay. I’m married; got two kids, both girls. Say, I couldn’t say hello to them, could I – in case they’re listening.”
“Go ahead, sailor. The video is all yours.”
“Gosh, thanks.” He burbled, “Hello, Milla, in case you’re listening, I’m fine. Is Sunni all right? And Tomma? I think of you all the time and maybe I’ll be back on furlough after we get back to port. I got your food parcel but I’m sending it back. We get our regular mess, but they say the civilians are a little tight. I guess that’s all.”
“I’ll look her up next time I’m on Locris, sailor, and make sure she’s not short of food. O.K.?”
The young man smiled broadly and nodded his head. “Thank you, Mr. Turbor. I’d appreciate that.”
“All right. Suppose you tell us, then– You’re a volunteer, aren’t you?”
“Sure am. If anyone picks a fight with me, I don’t have to wait for anyone to drag me in. I joined up the day I heard about the Hober Mallow.”
“That’s a fine spirit. Have you seen much action? I notice “You’re wearing two battle stars.”
“Ptah.” The sailor spat. “Those weren’t battles, they were chases. The Kalganians don’t fight, unless they have odds of five to one or better in their favor. Even then they just edge in and try to cut us up ship by ship. Cousin of mine was at Ifni and he was on a ship that got away, the old Ebling Mis. He says it was the same there. They had their Main Fleet against just a wing division of ours, and down to where we only had five ships left, they kept stalking instead of fighting. We got twice as many of their ships at that fight.”
“Then you think we’re going to win the war?”
Sure bet; now that we aren’t retreating. Even if things got too bad, that’s when I’d expect the Second Foundation to step in. We still got the Seldon Plan – and they know it, too.”
Turbor’s lips curled a bit. “You’re counting on the Second Foundation, then?”
The answer came with honest surprise. “Well, doesn’t everyone?”
Junior Officer Tippellum stepped into Turbor’s room after the visicast. He shoved a cigarette at the correspondent and knocked his cap back to a perilous balance on the occiput.
“We picked up a prisoner,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Little crazy fellow. Claims to be a neutral – diplomatic immunity, no less. I don’t think they know what to do with him. His name’s Palvro, Palver, something like that, and he says he’s from Trantor. Don’t know what in space he’s doing in a war zone.”
But Turbor had swung to a sitting position on his bunk and the nap he had been about to take was forgotten. He remembered quite well his last interview with Darell, the day after war had been declared and he was shoving off.
“Preem Palver,” he said. It was a statement.