ILLUSTRATED BY FREAS
For every evil under the sun, there's an answer.
It may be a simple, direct answer; it may be one
that takes years, and seems unrelated to the
problem. But there's an answer—of a kind....
President Folsom XXIV said
petulantly to his Secretary of
the Treasury: "Blow me to hell,
Bannister, if I understood a
single word of that. Why can't I
buy the Nicolaides Collection?
And don't start with the rediscount
and the Series W business
again. Just tell me why."
The Secretary of the Treasury
said with an air of apprehension
and a thread-like feeling across
his throat: "It boils down to—no
money, Mr. President."
The President was too engrossed
in thoughts of the marvelous
collection to fly into a rage. "It's
such a bargain," he said mournfully.
"An archaic Henry Moore
figure—really too big to finger,
but I'm no culture-snob, thank
God—and fifteen early Morrisons
and I can't begin to tell you
what else." He looked hopefully
at the Secretary of Public Opinion:
"Mightn't I seize it for the
public good or something?"
The Secretary of Public Opinion
shook his head. His pose was
gruffly professional. "Not a
chance, Mr. President. We'd
never get away with it. The art-lovers
would scream to high
"I suppose so.... Why isn't
there any money?" He had
swiveled dangerously on the
Secretary of the Treasury again.
"Sir, purchases of the new
Series W bond issue have lagged
badly because potential buyers
have been attracted to—"
"Stop it, stop it, stop it! You
know I can't make head or tail of
that stuff. Where's the money
The Director of the Budget
said cautiously: "Mr. President,
during the biennium just ending,
the Department of Defense accounted
for 78 per cent of expenditures—"
The Secretary of Defense
growled: "Now wait a minute,
Felder! We were voted—"
The President interrupted,
raging weakly: "Oh, you rascals!
My father would have known
what to do with you! But don't
think I can't handle it. Don't
think you can hoodwink me." He
punched a button ferociously; his
silly face was contorted with
rage and there was a certain
tension on all the faces around
the Cabinet table.
Panels slid down abruptly in
the walls, revealing grim-faced
Secret Servicemen. Each Cabinet
officer was covered by at least
two automatic rifles.
"Take that—that traitor
away!" the President yelled. His
finger pointed at the Secretary
of Defense, who slumped over
the table, sobbing. Two Secret
Servicemen half-carried him
from the room.
President Folsom XXIV
leaned back, thrusting out his
lower lip. He told the Secretary
of the Treasury: "Get me the
money for the Nicolaides Collection.
Do you understand? I don't
care how you do it. Get it." He
glared at the Secretary of Public
Opinion. "Have you any comments?"
"No, Mr. President."
"All right, then." The President
unbent and said plaintively:
"I don't see why you can't all
be more reasonable. I'm a very
reasonable man. I don't see why
I can't have a few pleasures
along with my responsibilities.
Really I don't. And I'm sensitive.
I don't like these scenes. Very
well. That's all. The Cabinet
meeting is adjourned."
They rose and left silently in
the order of their seniority. The
President noticed that the panels
were still down and pushed the
button that raised them again
and hid the granite-faced Secret
Servicemen. He took out of his
pocket a late Morrison fingering-piece
and turned it over in his
hand, a smile of relaxation and
bliss spreading over his face.
Such amusing textural contrast!
Such unexpected variations on
the classic sequences!
The Cabinet, less the Secretary
of Defense, was holding a rump
meeting in an untapped corner
of the White House gymnasium.
"God," the Secretary of State
said, white-faced. "Poor old
The professionally gruff Secretary
of Public Opinion said: "We
should murder the bastard. I
don't care what happens—"
The Director of the Budget
said dryly: "We all know what
would happen. President Folsom
XXV would take office. No;
we've got to keep plugging as before.
Nothing short of the invincible
can topple the Republic...."
"What about a war?" the Secretary
of Commerce demanded
fiercely. "We've no proof that our
program will work. What about
State said wearily: "Not while
there's a balance of power, my
dear man. The Io-Callisto Question
proved that. The Republic
and the Soviet fell all over themselves
trying to patch things up
as soon as it seemed that there
would be real shooting. Folsom
XXIV and his excellency Premier
Yersinsky know at least that
The Secretary of the Treasury
said: "What would you all think
of Steiner for Defense?"
The Director of the Budget
was astonished. "Would he take
Treasury cleared his throat.
"As a matter of fact, I've asked
him to stop by right about
now." He hurled a medicine ball
into the budgetary gut.
"Oof!" said the Director. "You
bastard. Steiner would be perfect.
He runs Standards like a
watch." He treacherously fired
the medicine ball at the Secretary
of Raw Materials, who
blandly caught it and slammed it
"Here he comes," said the Secretary
of Raw Materials.
"Steiner! Come and sweat some
Steiner ambled over, a squat
man in his fifties, and said: "I
don't mind if I do. Where's
State said: "The President
unmasked him as a traitor. He's
probably been executed by now."
Steiner looked grim, and
grimmer yet when the Secretary
of the Treasury said, dead-pan:
"We want to propose you for Defense."
"I'm happy in Standards,"
Steiner said. "Safer, too. The
Man's father took an interest in
science, but The Man never
comes around. Things are very
quiet. Why don't you invite
Winch, from the National Art
Commission? It wouldn't be
much of a change for the worse
"No brains," the Secretary for
Raw Materials said briefly.
Steiner caught the ball and
slugged it back at him. "What
good are brains?" he asked
"Close the ranks, gentlemen,"
State said. "These long shots are
too hard on my arms."
The ranks closed and the
Cabinet told Steiner what good
were brains. He ended by accepting.
The Moon is all Republic.
Mars is all Soviet. Titan is all
Republic. Ganymede is all Soviet.
But Io and Callisto, by the
Treaty of Greenwich, are half-and-half
Republic and Soviet.
Down the main street of the
principal settlement on Io runs
an invisible line. On one side of
the line, the principal settlement
is known as New Pittsburgh. On
the other side it is known as
Into a miner's home in New
Pittsburgh one day an eight-year-old
boy named Grayson
staggered, bleeding from the
head. His eyes were swollen almost
His father lurched to his feet,
knocking over a bottle. He looked
stupidly at the bottle, set it upright
too late to save much of the
alcohol, and then stared fixedly
at the boy. "See what you made
me do, you little bastard?" he
growled, and fetched the boy a
clout on his bleeding head that
sent him spinning against the
wall of the hut. The boy got up
slowly and silently—there
seemed to be something wrong
with his left arm—and glowered
at his father.
He said nothing.
"Fighting again," the father
said, in a would-be fierce voice.
His eyes fell under the peculiar
fire in the boy's stare. "Damn
A woman came in from the
kitchen. She was tall and thin. In
a flat voice she said to the man:
"Get out of here." The man hiccupped
and said: "Your brat
spilled my bottle. Gimme a dollar."
In the same flat voice: "I have
to buy food."
"I said gimme a dollar!" The
man slapped her face—it did not
change—and wrenched a small
purse from the string that suspended
it around her neck. The
boy suddenly was a demon, flying
at his father with fists and
teeth. It lasted only a second or
two. The father kicked him into
a corner where he lay, still glaring,
wordless and dry-eyed. The
mother had not moved; her husband's
handmark was still red on
her face when he hulked out,
clutching the money bag.
Mrs. Grayson at last crouched
in the corner with the eight-year-old
boy. "Little Tommy,"
she said softly. "My little
Tommy! Did you cross the line
He was blubbering in her
arms, hysterically, as she caressed
him. At last he was able
to say: "I didn't cross the line,
Mom. Not this time. It was in
school. They said our name was
really Krasinsky. God-damn
him!" the boy shrieked. "They
said his grandfather was named
Krasinsky and he moved over
the line and changed his name
to Grayson! God-damn him! Doing
that to us!"
"Now, darling," his mother
said, caressing him. "Now, darling."
His trembling began to
ebb. She said: "Let's get out the
spools, Tommy. You mustn't fall
behind in school. You owe that
to me, don't you, darling?"
"Yes, Mom," he said. He
threw his spindly arms around
her and kissed her. "Get out the
spools. We'll show him. I mean
President Folsom XXIV lay
on his death-bed, feeling no pain,
mostly because his personal
physician had pumped him full
of morphine. Dr. Barnes sat by
the bed holding the presidential
wrist and waiting, occasionally
nodding off and recovering with
a belligerent stare around the
room. The four wire-service men
didn't care whether he fell
asleep or not; they were worriedly
discussing the nature and habits
of the President's first-born,
who would shortly succeed to the
highest office in the Republic.
"A firebrand, they tell me,"
the A.P. man said unhappily.
"Firebrands I don't mind," the
U.P. man said. "He can send out
all the inflammatory notes he
wants just as long as he isn't a
fiend for exercise. I'm not as
young as I once was. You boys
wouldn't remember the old President,
Folsom XXII. He used to
do point-to-point hiking. He worshipped
The I.N.S. man said, lowering
his voice: "Then he was worshipping
the wrong Roosevelt.
Teddy was the athlete."
Dr. Barnes started, dropped
the presidential wrist and held
a mirror to the mouth for a moment.
"Gentlemen," he said, "the
President is dead."
"O.K.," the A.P. man said.
"Let's go, boys. I'll send in the
flash. U.P., you go cover the College
of Electors. I.N.S., get onto
the President Elect. Trib, collect
some interviews and background—"
The door opened abruptly; a
colonel of infantry was standing
there, breathing hard, with an
automatic rifle at port. "Is he
dead?" he asked.
"Yes," the A.P. man said. "If
you'll let me past—"
"Nobody leaves the room," the
colonel said grimly. "I represent
General Slocum, Acting President
of the Republic. The College
of Electors is acting now to
A burst of gunfire caught the
colonel in the back; he spun and
fell, with a single hoarse cry.
More gunfire sounded through
the White House. A Secret Serviceman
ducked his head
through the door: "President's
dead? You boys stay put. We'll
have this thing cleaned up in an
hour—" He vanished.
The doctor sputtered his alarm
and the newsmen ignored him
with professional poise. The
A.P. man asked: "Now who's
Slocum? Defense Command?"
I.N.S. said: "I remember him.
Three stars. He headed up the
Tactical Airborne Force out in
Kansas four-five years ago. I
think he was retired since then."
A phosphorus grenade crashed
through the window and exploded
with a globe of yellow flame
the size of a basketball; dense
clouds of phosphorus pentoxide
gushed from it and the sprinkler
system switched on, drenching
"Come on!" hacked the A.P.
man, and they scrambled from
the room and slammed the door.
The doctor's coat was burning in
two or three places, and he was
retching feebly on the corridor
floor. They tore his coat off and
flung it back into the room.
The U.P. man, swearing horribly,
dug a sizzling bit of phosphorus
from the back of his hand
with a pen-knife and collapsed,
sweating, when it was out. The
I.N.S. man passed him a flask
and he gurgled down half a pint
of liquor. "Who flang that
brick?" he asked faintly.
"Nobody," the A.P. man said
gloomily. "That's the hell of it.
None of this is happening. Just
the way Taft the Pretender
never happened in '03. Just the
way the Pentagon Mutiny
never happened in '67."
"'68," the U.P. man said
faintly. "It didn't happen in '68,
The A.P. man smashed a fist
into the palm of his hand and
swore. "God-damn," he said.
"Some day I'd like to—" He
broke off and was bitterly silent.
The U.P. man must have been
a little dislocated with shock and
quite drunk to talk the way he
did. "Me too," he said. "Like to
tell the story. Maybe it was '67
not '68. I'm not sure now. Can't
write it down so the details get
lost and then after a while it
didn't happen at all. Revolution'd
be good deal. But it takes people
t' make revolution. People. With
eyes 'n ears. 'N memories. We
make things not-happen an' we
make people not-see an' not-hear...."
He slumped back
against the corridor wall, nursing
his burned hand. The others
were watching him, very scared.
Then the A.P. man caught
sight of the Secretary of Defense
striding down the corridor,
flanked by Secret Servicemen.
"Mr. Steiner!" he called.
"What's the picture?"
Steiner stopped, breathing
heavily, and said: "Slocum's barricaded
in the Oval Study. They
don't want to smash in. He's
about the only one left. There
were only fifty or so. The Acting
President's taken charge at the
Study. You want to come along?"
They did, and even hauled the
U.P. man after them.
The Acting President, who
would be President Folsom
XXV as soon as the Electoral
College got around to it, had his
father's face—the petulant lip,
the soft jowl—on a hard young
body. He also had an auto-rifle
ready to fire from the hip. Most
of the Cabinet was present.
When the Secretary of Defense
arrived, he turned on him.
"Steiner," he said nastily, "can
you explain why there should be
a rebellion against the Republic
in your department?"
"Mr. President," Steiner said,
"Slocum was retired on my recommendation
two years ago. It
seems to me that my responsibility
ended there and Security
should have taken over."
The President Elect's finger
left the trigger of the auto-rifle
and his lip drew in a little.
"Quite so," he said curtly, and,
turned to the door. "Slocum!" he
shouted. "Come out of there. We
can use gas if we want."
The door opened unexpectedly
and a tired-looking man with
three stars on each shoulder
stood there, bare-handed. "All
right," he said drearily. "I was
fool enough to think something
could be done about the regime.
But you fat-faced imbeciles are
going to go on and on and—"
The stutter of the auto-rifle
cut him off. The President
Elect's knuckles were white as
he clutched the piece's forearm
and grip; the torrent of slugs
continued to hack and plow the
general's body until the magazine
was empty. "Burn that," he said
curtly, turning his back on it.
"Dr. Barnes, come here. I want
to know about my father's passing."
The doctor, hoarse and red-eyed
from the whiff of phosphorus
smoke, spoke with him.
The U.P. man had sagged drunkenly
into a chair, but the other
newsmen noted that Dr. Barnes
glanced at them as he spoke, in
a confidential murmur.
"Thank you, Doctor," the President
Elect said at last, decisively.
He gestured to a Secret
Serviceman. "Take those traitors
away." They went, numbly.
The Secretary of State cleared
his throat. "Mr. President," he
said, "I take this opportunity to
submit the resignations of myself
and fellow Cabinet members
according to custom."
"That's all right," the President
Elect said. "You may as well
stay on. I intend to run things
myself anyway." He hefted the
auto-rifle. "You," he said to the
Secretary of Public Opinion.
"You have some work to do. Have
the memory of my father's—artistic—preoccupations
as soon as possible. I wish
the Republic to assume a war-like
posture—yes; what is it?"
A trembling messenger said:
"Mr. President, I have the honor
to inform you that the College
of Electors has elected you President
of the Republic—unanimously."
Thomas Grayson lay on his bunk
and sobbed in an agony of loneliness.
The letter from his mother
was crumpled in his hand:
"—prouder than words can tell of
your appointment to the Academy.
Darling, I hardly knew my
grandfather but I know that you
will serve as brilliantly as he did,
to the eternal credit of the Republic.
You must be brave and
strong for my sake—"
He would have given everything
he had or ever could hope
to have to be back with her, and
away from the bullying, sneering
fellow-cadets of the Corps. He
kissed the letter—and then
hastily shoved it under his mattress
as he heard footsteps.
He popped to a brace, but it
was only his roommate Ferguson.
Ferguson was from Earth,
and rejoiced in the lighter Lunar
gravity which was punishment
to Grayson's Io-bred muscles.
"Rest, mister," Ferguson grinned.
"Thought it was night inspection."
"Any minute now. They're
down the hall. Lemme tighten
your bunk or you'll be in
trouble—" Tightening the bunk
he pulled out the letter and said,
calvishly: "Ah-hah! Who is
she?—" and opened it.
When the cadet officers reached
the room they found Ferguson
on the floor being strangled black
in the face by spidery little Grayson.
It took all three of them
to pull him off. Ferguson went
to the infirmary and Grayson
went to the Commandant's office.
The Commandant glared at the
cadet from under the most spectacular
pair of eyebrows in the
Service. "Cadet Grayson," he
said, "explain what occurred."
"Sir, Cadet Ferguson began to
read a letter from my mother
without my permission."
"That is not accepted by the
Corps as grounds for mayhem.
Do you have anything further to
"Sir, I lost my temper. All I
thought of was that it was an
act of disrespect to my mother
and somehow to the Corps and
the Republic too—that Cadet
Ferguson was dishonoring the
Bushwah, the Commandant
thought. A snow job and a crude
one. He studied the youngster.
He had never seen such a brace
from an Io-bred fourth-classman.
It must be torture to muscles
not yet toughened up to even
Lunar gravity. Five minutes
more and the boy would have to
give way, and serve him right
for showing off.
He studied Grayson's folder.
It was too early to tell about
academic work, but the fourth-classman
was a bear—or a fool—for
extra duty. He had gone
out for half a dozen teams and
applied for membership in the
exacting Math Club and Writing
Club. The Commandant glanced
up; Grayson was still in his extreme
brace. The Commandant
suddenly had the queer idea that
Grayson could hold it until it
"One hundred hours of pack-drill,"
he barked, "to be completed
Cadet Grayson, if you succeed in
walking off your tours, remember
that there is a tradition of fellowship
in the Corps which its
members are expected to observe.
After Grayson's steel-sharp
salute and exit the Commandant
dug deeper into the folder. Apparently
there was something
wrong with the boy's left arm,
but it had been passed by the
examining team that visited Io.
Most unusual. Most irregular.
But nothing could be done about
The President, softer now in
body than on his election day,
and infinitely more cautious,
snapped: "It's all very well to
create an incident. But where's
the money to come from? Who
wants the rest of Io anyway?
And what will happen if there's
Treasury said: "The hoarders
will supply the money, Mr.
President. A system of percentage-bounties
for persons who report
currency-hoarders, and then
enforced purchase of a bond
Raw materials said: "We need
that iron, Mr. President. We
need it desperately."
State said: "All our evaluations
indicate that the Soviet
Premier would consider nothing
less than armed invasion of his
continental borders as occasion
for all-out war. The consumer-goods
party in the Soviet has
gained immensely during the
past five years and of course
their armaments have suffered.
Your shrewd directive to put the
Republic in a war-like posture
has borne fruit, Mr. President...."
President Folsom XXV studied
them narrowly. To him the
need for a border incident culminating
in a forced purchase
of Soviet Io did not seem as
pressing as they thought, but
they were, after all, specialists.
And there was no conceivable
way they could benefit from it
personally. The only alternative
was that they were offering their
professional advice and that it
would be best to heed it. Still,
there was a vague, nagging
Nonsense, he decided. The spy
dossiers on his Cabinet showed
nothing but the usual. One had
been blackmailed by an actress
after an affair and railroaded her
off the Earth. Another had a
habit of taking bribes to advance
favorite sons in civil and military
service. And so on. The Republic
could not suffer at their hands;
the Republic and the dynasty
were impregnable. You simply
spied on everybody—including
the spies—and ordered summary
executions often enough to show
that you meant it, and kept the
public ignorant: deaf-dumb-blind
ignorant. The spy system
was simplicity itself; you had
only to let things get as tangled
and confused as possible until
nobody knew who was who. The
executions were literally no problem,
for guilt or innocence made
no matter. And mind-control
when there were four newspapers,
six magazines and three
radio and television stations was
a job for a handful of clerks.
No; the Cabinet couldn't be
getting away with anything. The
system was unbeatable.
President Folsom XXV said:
"Very well. Have it done."
Mrs. Grayson, widow, of New
Pittsburgh, Io, disappeared one
night. It was in all the papers
and on all the broadcasts. Some
time later she was found dragging
herself back across the line
and New Pittsburgh in sorry
shape. She had a terrible tale to
tell about what she had suffered
at the hands and so forth of the
Nizhni-Magnitogorskniks. A diplomatic
note from the Republic to
the Soviet was answered by another
note which was answered
by the dispatch of the Republic's
First Fleet to Io which was
answered by the dispatch of the
Soviet's First and Fifth Fleets
The Republic's First Fleet
blew up the customary deserted
target hulk, fulminated over a
sneak sabotage attack and moved
in its destroyers. Battle was
Ensign Thomas Grayson took
over the command of his destroyer
when its captain was
killed on his bridge. An electrified
crew saw the strange, brooding
youngster perform prodigies
of skill and courage, and responded
to them. In one week of
desultory action the battered destroyer
had accounted for seven
Soviet destroyers and a cruiser.
As soon as this penetrated to
the flagship, Grayson was decorated
and given a flotilla. His
weird magnetism extended to
every officer and man aboard the
seven craft. They struck like
phantoms, cutting out cruisers
and battlewagons in wild unorthodox
actions that couldn't
have succeeded but did—every
time. Grayson was badly wounded
twice, but his driving nervous
energy carried him through.
He was decorated again and
given the battlewagon of an ailing
Without orders he touched
down on the Soviet side of Io, led
out a landing party of marines
and bluejackets, cut through two
regiments of Soviet infantry,
and returned to his battlewagon
with prisoners: the top civil and
military administrators of Soviet
They discussed him nervously
aboard the flagship.
"He has a mystical quality,
Admiral. His men would follow
him into an atomic furnace. And—and
I almost believe he could
bring them through safely if he
wanted to." The laugh was nervous.
"He doesn't look like much.
But when he turns on the charm—watch
"He's—he's a winner. Now I
wonder what I mean by that?"
"I know what you mean. They
turn up every so often. People
who can't be stopped. People who
have everything. Napoleons.
Alexanders. Stalins. Up from
"Suleiman. Hitler. Folsom I.
"Well, let's get it over with."
They tugged at their gold-braided
jackets and signalled the
Grayson was piped aboard,
received another decoration and
another speech. This time he
made a speech in return.
President Folsom XXV, not
knowing what else to do, had
summoned his cabinet. "Well?"
he rasped at the Secretary of
Steiner said with a faint
shrug: "Mr. President, there is
nothing to be done. He has the
fleet, he has the broadcasting
facilities, he has the people."
"People!" snarled the President.
His finger stabbed at a button
and the wall panels snapped
down to show the Secret Servicemen
standing in their niches.
The finger shot tremulously out
at Steiner. "Kill that traitor!"
The chief of the detail said uneasily:
"Mr. President, we were
listening to Grayson before we
came on duty. He says he's de
facto President now—"
"Kill him! Kill him!"
The chief went doggedly on:
"—and we liked what he had to
say about the Republic and he
said citizens of the Republic
shouldn't take orders from you
and he'd relieve you—"
The President fell back.
Grayson walked in, wearing
his plain ensign's uniform and
smiling faintly. Admirals and
four-stripers flanked him.
The chief of the detail said:
"Mr. Grayson! Are you taking
The man in the ensign's uniform
said gravely: "Yes. And
just call me 'Grayson,' please.
The titles come later. You can
The chief gave a pleased grin
and collected his detail. The
rather slight, youngish man who
had something wrong with one
arm was in charge—complete
Grayson said: "Mr. Folsom,
you are relieved of the presidency.
Captain, take him out
and—" He finished with a whimsical
shrug. A portly four-striper
took Folsom by one arm. Like a
drugged man the deposed president
let himself be led out.
Grayson looked around the
table. "Who are you gentlemen?"
They felt his magnetism, like
the hum when you pass a power
Steiner was the spokesman.
"Grayson," he said soberly, "We
were Folsom's Cabinet. However,
there is more that we have to
tell you. Alone, if you will allow
"Very well, gentlemen." Admirals
and captains backed out,
Steiner said: "Grayson, the
story goes back many years. My
predecessor, William Malvern,
determined to overthrow the
regime, holding that it was an
affront to the human spirit.
There have been many such attempts.
All have broken up on
the rocks of espionage, terrorism
and opinion-control—the three
weapons which the regime holds
firmly in its hands.
"Malvern tried another approach
than espionage versus espionage,
terrorism versus terrorism
and opinion-control versus
opinion-control. He determined
to use the basic fact that certain
men make history: that there are
men born to be mould-breakers.
They are the Phillips of Macedon,
the Napoleons, Stalins and
Hitlers, the Suleimans—the
adventurers. Again and again
they flash across history, bringing
down an ancient empire,
turning ordinary soldiers of the
line into unkillable demons of
battle, uprooting cultures,
breathing new life into moribund
"There are common denominators
among all the adventurers.
Intelligence, of course. Other
things are more mysterious but
are always present. They are
foreigners. Napoleon the Corsican.
Hitler the Austrian. Stalin
the Georgian. Phillip the Macedonian.
Always there is an
Oedipus complex. Always there
is physical deficiency. Napoleon's
stature. Stalin's withered arm—and
yours. Always there is a
minority disability, real or fancied.
"This is a shock to you, Grayson,
but you must face it. You
"Malvern packed the cabinet
with the slyest double-dealers he
could find and they went to work.
Eighty-six infants were planted
on the outposts of the Republic
in simulated family environments.
Your mother was not
your mother but one of the most
brilliant actresses ever to drop
out of sight on Earth. Your intelligence-heredity
was so good
that we couldn't turn you down
for lack of a physical deficiency.
We withered your arm with
gamma radiation. I hope you
will forgive us. There was no
"Of the eighty-six you are the
one that worked. Somehow the
combination for you was minutely
different from all the
other combinations, genetically
or environmentally, and it worked.
That is all we were after. The
mould has been broken, you know
now what you are. Let come
whatever chaos is to come; the
dead hand of the past no longer
Grayson went to the door and
beckoned; two captains came in.
Steiner broke off his speech as
Grayson said to them: "These
men deny my godhood. Take
them out and—" he finished with
a whimsical shrug.
"Yes, your divinity," said the
captains, without a trace of humor
in their voices.
Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction May 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.