Crane ran through the rest of it and threw himself moodily into a chair.
The idiots! The stupid unelected, self-appointed guardians of democracy!
Not once--not _once_, mind you--had a single one of these great brains
referred to the obvious.
It was a Russian plot!
All those allusions to the extraterrestrial was so much bilge. The
Russians were infiltrating the country with synthetic men. This
meant--oh, God--it meant that in a short time Russia would be able to
create an army of these monsters and overwhelm the world.
Senator Crane sprang to his feet and measured his indignation in long
strides across the thick, expensive carpeting on his floor. The
traitor! The sheer, compulsive opportunist! That was certainly all that
Brent Taber could be called. Using this deadly situation as a means of
furthering his own interests.
Senator Crane deliberately stilled his rage and objectively considered
what he should do about it. With the obvious source of the androids
logically deduced, there was only his own defensive procedures to be
considered. And they had to be considered carefully. As he saw himself,
he stood alone, against a group of bumbling idiots, with the future of
the nation at stake. What to do?
The key question, of course, was: How soon will Russia be able to mount
an army? Probably not very soon, he decided. That fact gave him time to
ferret out more information; to become completely sure of himself.
One thing you had to realize about the American public--or about any
mass of humanity, for that matter--a thing of importance had to be
presented dramatically. This, in a sense, was the duty of the elected
public servant--to recognize this somewhat childish failing of the
average intelligence and make allowances for it. _You can do this, of
course_, Senator Crane told himself, _when you love the people_.
And, fortunately for their survival, Senator Crane loved the American
people.
So, for a few moments, he o'erleaped the hard work ahead and saw the
goal--envisioned the headlines: