but there exist spots, strategically placed - and Radole City was located in such a one.
It spread along the soft slopes of the foothills before the hacked-out mountains that backed it along the rim of the cold hemisphere and held off the frightful ice. The warm, dry air of the sun-half spilled over, and from the mountains was piped the water-and between the two, Radole City became a continuous garden, swimming in the eternal morning of an eternal June.
Each house nestled among its flower garden, open to the fangless elements. Each garden was a horticultural forcing ground, where luxury plants grew in fantastic patterns for the sake of the foreign exchange they brought - until Radole had almost become a producing world, rather than a typical Trading world.
So, in its way, Radole City was a little point of softness and luxury on a horrible planet - a tiny scrap of Eden - and that, too, was a factor in the logic of the choice.
The strangers came from each of the twenty-six other Trading worlds: delegates, wives, secretaries, newsmen, ships, and crews - and Radole's population nearly doubled and Radole's resources strained themselves to the limit. One ate at will, and drank at will, and slept not at all.
Yet there were few among the roisterers who were not intensely aware that all that volume of the Galaxy burnt slowly in a sort of quiet, slumbrous war. And of those who were aware, there were dime classes. First, there were the many who knew little and were very confident.
Such as the young space pilot who wore the Haven cockade on the clasp of his cap, and who managed, in holding his glass before his eyes, to catch those of the faintly smiling Radolian girl opposite. He was saying:
"We came fight through the war-zone to get here-on purpose. We traveled about a light-minute or so, in neutral, right past Horleggor-"
"Horleggor?" broke in a long-legged native, who was playing host to that particular gathering. "That's where the Mule got the guts beat out of him last week, wasn't it?"
"Where'd you hear that the Mule got the guts beat out of him?" demanded the pilot, loftily.
"Foundation radio."
"Yeah? Well, the Mule's got Horleggor. We almost ran into a convoy of his ships, and that's where they were coming from. It isn't a gut-beating when you stay where you fought, and the gut-beater leaves in a hurry."
Someone else said in a high, blurred voice, "Don't talk like that. Foundation always takes it on the chin for a while. You watch; just sit tight and watch. Ol' Foundation knows when to come back. And then - pow!" The thick voice concluded and was succeeded by a bleary grin.
"Anyway." said the pilot from Haven, after a short pause, "As I say, we saw the Mule's ships, and they looked pretty good, pretty good. I tell you what - they looked new."
"New?" said the native, thoughtfully. "They build them themselves?" He broke a leaf from an overhanging branch, sniffed delicately at it, then crunched it between his teeth, the bruised tissues bleeding greenly and diffusing a minty odor. He said, "You trying to tell me they beat Foundation ships with homebuilt jobs? Go on."
"We saw them, doc. And I can tell a ship from a comet, too, you know."
The native leaned close. "You know what I think. Listen, don't kid yourself. Wars don't just start by themselves, and we have a bunch of shrewd apples running things. They know what they're doing."
The well-unthirsted one said with sudden loudness, "You watch ol' Foundation. They wait for the last minute, then - pow!" He grinned with vacuously open mouth at the girl, who moved away from him.
The Radolian was saying, "For instance, old man, you think maybe that this Mule guy's running things. No-o-o." And he wagged a finger horizontally. "The way I hear it, and from pretty high up, mind you, he's our boy. We're paying him off, and we probably built those ships. Let's be realistic about it - we probably did. Sure, he can't beat the Foundation in the long run, but he can get them shaky, and when he does - we get in."
The girl said, "Is that all you can talk about, Klev? The war? You make me tired."
The pilot from Haven said, in an access of gallantry,
"Change the subject. Can't make the girls tired."
The bedewed one took up the refrain and banged a mug to the rhythm. The little groups of two that had formed broke