"_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 again?"
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 them."
* * * * *
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 old F.D.R."
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 ratify--"
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 the room.
"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, not '67."
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 obliterated 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."
* * * * *
Cadet Fourth-Classman 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 say?"
"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 Corps."
_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 killed him.
"One hundred hours of pack-drill," he barked, "to be completed before
quarter-term. 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. Dismiss."
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 it now.
* * * * *
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 war?"
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 issue."
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
something....
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.