It was evening of  the same day, and in Jorane Sutt's bachelor apartment onthe twenty-first  floor of  the Hardin Building, Publis  Manlio was sippingwine slowly.
It was  Publis Manlio in whose slight, aging  body were fulfilled two greatoffices of the Foundation. He was Foreign Secretary in the mayor's cabinet,and to  all the outer suns, barring only the  Foundation itself, he was, inaddition, Primate¹  of the Church, Purveyor² of the  Holy Food, Master of theTemples,  and  so  forth  almost  indefinitely in  confusing  but  sonoroussyllables.
He was  saying, "But  he agreed to  let you send  out that trader.  It is apoint.""But such  a small  one," said Sutt.  "It gets us  nothing immediately. Thewhole business  is the crudest sort  of stratagem³, since we  have no way offoreseeing it  to the end.  It is a mere  paying out of rope  on the chancethat somewhere along the length of it will be a noose⁴.""True. And this Mallow  is a capable man. What if he is not an easy prey⁵ todupery?""That  is a  chance that  must be  run. If  there is  treachery, it  is thecapable men  that are implicated⁶. If  not, we need a  capable man to detectthe   truth.  And   Mallow  will   be  guarded.   Your  glass   is  empty.""No, thanks. I've had enough."Sutt filled his own glass and patiently endured the other's uneasy reverie.
Of whatever  the reverie consisted, it  ended indecisively, for the primatesaid   suddenly,  almost   explosively,  "Sutt,   what's  on   your  mind?""I'll tell  you, Manlio." His thin  lips parted, "We're in  the middle of aSeldon crisis."Manlio stared,  then said softly, "How do you  know? Has Seldon appeared inthe Time

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