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Title: The Adventurer

Author: C. M. Kornbluth

Illustrator: Kelly Freas

Release date: September 4, 2009 [eBook #29908]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURER ***




Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









    THE
 Adventurer

 BY C. M. KORNBLUTH

 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 Heaven."

[Illustration]

"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 _going_?"

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 Willy!"

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 a war?"

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 much."

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 it?"

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
back.

"Here he comes," said the Secretary of Raw Materials. "Steiner! Come and
sweat some oleo off!"

Steiner ambled over, a squat man in his fifties, and said: "I don't mind
if I do. Where's Willy?"

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 for him."

"No brains," the Secretary for Raw Materials said briefly. "Heads up!"

Steiner caught the ball and slugged it back at him. "What good are
brains?" he asked quietly.

"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 Nizhni-Magnitogorsk.

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 shut.

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 fool--"

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 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.

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 between Nizhni-Magnitogorsk
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 to Io.

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 joined.

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
four-striper.

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 Io.

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 out!"

"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 nowhere."

"Suleiman. Hitler. Folsom I. Jenghis Khan."

"Well, let's get it over with."

They tugged at their gold-braided jackets and signalled the honor guard.

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 Defense.

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!"
he raved.

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 over?"

The man in the ensign's uniform said gravely: "Yes. And just call me
'Grayson,' please. The titles come later. You can go now."

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_ charge.

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 station.

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 it."

"Very well, gentlemen." Admirals and captains backed out, looking
concerned.

       *       *       *       *       *

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
peoples.

"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 were
manufactured._

"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 other
way.

"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 lies
on--"

       *       *       *       *       *

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.




Transcriber's Note:

    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.







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