That night he was at the Fox's home, and took a hand in a game of cards with two other men he knew by reputation and one by name and face.
Over the cards and the passing and repassing tokens, they spoke.
The captain said, "It's a fundamental error. You live in the exploded past. For eighty years our organization has been waiting for the correct historical moment. We've been blinded by Seldon's psychohistory, one of the first propositions of which is that the individual does not count, does not make history, and that complex social and economic factors override him, make a puppet out of him." He adjusted his cards carefully, appraised their value and said, as he put out a token. "Why not kill the Mule?"
"Well, now, and what good would that do?" demanded the man at his left, fiercely.
"You see," said the captain, discarding two cards, "that's the attitude. What is one man - out of quadrillions. The Galaxy won't stop rotating because one man dies. But the Mule is not a man, he is a mutant. Already, he had upset Seldon's plan, and if you'll stop to analyze the implications, it means that he - one man - one mutant - upset all of Seldon's psychohistory. If he had never lived, the Foundation would not have fallen. If he ceased living, it would not remain fallen.
"Come, the democrats have fought the mayors and the traders for eighty years by connivery. Let's try assassination."
"How?" interposed the Fox, with cold common sense.
The captain said, slowly, "I've spent three months of thought on that with no solution. I came here and had it in five minutes." He glanced briefly at the man whose broad, pink melon of a face smiled from the place at his right. "You were once Mayor Indbur's chamberlain. I did not know you were of the underground,"
"Nor I, that you were."
"Well, then, in your capacity as chamberlain you periodically checked the working of the alarm system of the palace."
"I did."
"And the Mule occupies the palace now."
"So it has been announced - though he is a modest conqueror who makes no speeches, proclamations nor public appearances of any sort."
"That's an old story, and affects nothing. You, my ex-chamberlain, are all we need."
The cards were shown and the Fox collected the stakes. Slowly, he dealt a new hand.
The man who had once been chamberlain picked up his cards, singly. "Sorry, captain. I checked the alarm system, but it was routine. I know nothing about it."
"I expected that, but your mind carries an eidetic memory of the controls if it can be probed deeply enough - with a psychic probe."
The chamberlain's ruddy face paled suddenly and sagged. The cards in his hand crumpled under sudden fist-pressure, "A psychic probe?"
"You needn't worry," said the captain, sharply. "I know how to use one. It will not harm you past a few days' weakness. And if it did, it is the chance you take and the price you pay. There are some among us, no doubt, who from the controls of the alarm could determine the wavelength combinations. There are some among us who could manufacture a small bomb under time-control and I myself will carry it to the Mule."
The men gathered over the table.
The captain announced, "On a given evening, a riot will start in Terminus City in the neighborhood of the palace. No real fighting. Disturbance - then flight. As long as the palace guard is attracted... or, at the very least, distracted-"
From that day for a month the preparations went on, and Captain Han Pritcher of the National Fleet having become conspirator descended further in the social scale and became an "assassin."
Captain Pritcher, assassin, was in the palace itself, and found himself grimly pleased with his psychology. A thorough alarm system outside meant few guards within. In this case, it meant none at all.
The floor plan was clear in his mind. He was a blob moving noiselessly up the well-carpeted ramp. At its head, he flattened against the wall and waited.
The small closed door of a private room was before him. Behind that door must be the mutant who had beaten the unbeatable. He was early - the bomb had ten minutes of life in it.
Five of these passed, and still in all the world there was no sound. The Mule had five minutes to live - So had Captain Pritcher-
He stepped forward on sudden impulse. The plot could no longer fail. When the bomb went, the palace would go with it - all the palace. A door between - ten yards between - was nothing. But he wanted to see the Mule as they died together.
In a last, insolent gesture, he thundered upon the door.
And it opened and let out the blinding light.
Captain Pritcher staggered, then caught himself. The solemn man, standing in the center of the small room before a suspended fish bowl, looked up mildly.
His uniform was a somber black, and as he tapped the bowl in an absent gesture, it bobbed quickly and the feather-finned, orange and vermilion fish within darted wildly.
He said, "Come in, captain!"
To the captain's quivering tongue the little metal globe beneath was swelling ominously - a physical impossibility, the captain knew. But it was in its last minute of life.
The uniformed man said, "You had better spit out the foolish pellet and free yourself for speech. It won't blast."
The minute passed and with a slow, sodden motion the captain bent his head and dropped the silvery globe into his palm. With a furious force it was flung against the wall. It rebounded with a tiny, sharp clangor, gleaming harmlessly as it flew.
The uniformed man shrugged. "So much for that, then. It would have done you no good in any case, captain. I am not the Mule. You will have to be satisfied with his viceroy."