The fulfillment of his own particular mission was close at hand now,
and the destroyer's commander was tensed at the jet keys. How great,
he thought, the destiny of the new Leader of the race and through
the Leader how great the race's destiny! No more worshipping of the
ancient god, Zabir, Father of the Deserts. That had been frustrate,
meaningless worship. Dawn after sudden dawn had passed and the race,
without ambition, without a goal for its dreams, aye, even without its
dreams, had waned into a purely subjective way of life, a fatalistic
waiting for the end which every day came closer; now each dawn brought
new hopes and life had become objective, meaningful. Zabir, you failed
us; the Leader will not.