v0.9 by Daj. This is a pre-proof release. Scanned, page numbers removed, paragraphs joined, formatted and common OCR errors have been largely removed. Full spell check and read-through still required.
It was an uneasy, all-pervading sensation, a threat of pain to come combined with the beginning of the pain itself. The old man saw that Doctor Parker was looking at him startled.
"Good heavens, sire," the physician said. "You've been given Blackmail poison. This is incredible."
Arthur Clagg sat very still in the bed, his eyes narrowed, his thought a slow pattern of reception to impression. His gaze took in the chunky, red-faced Parker, the enormous bedroom, the shaded windows. At last, grimly, he shook his shaggy old head, and said: "When will the crisis come in a man of my age?"
"About four days. The development is progressive, and the pain increases hour after hour by infinitesimal increments to a pitch of—"
The doctor broke off in a thin-lipped fury. "By God, this is the damnedest crime in the history of the world. Poisoning a man ninety-four years of age. Why, it's—"
He must have noticed the scornful quality of Arthur Clagg's gaze. He stopped. He looked abashed. He said: "I beg your pardon, sire."
Arthur Clagg said coldly: "I once defined you, Doctor, as a person with an adult mind and the emotional capacity of a child. It still seems to fit."
He paused. He sat in the bed, cold-faced, thoughtful. He said finally in a precise, almost stately voice: "You will refrain from informing anyone of what has happened, not even my great-granddaughter and her husband. No one! And"—a bleak smile touched his gray lips—"do not be too outraged by the crime. A man who dares to hold the reins of government is subject to all the risks of the trade, regardless of his age. In fact—"
He paused again. His smile twisted ironically as he went on: "In fact, as is already apparent, the struggle for succession to the power of an old dictator is bound to be ferocious… A year ago ,a battery of doctors, including yourself, said I had at least fifteen more years of life ahead of me. That was very welcome news because I had, and have still, to decide who shall be my successor."
He smiled again, but there was a harshness in his voice as he went on: "I now find that I have four days in which to make my decision. That is, I think I have four days. Is there anything in the news that will cut me down to even less time than that?"
The doctor was silent for a moment, as if he were organizing his mind, then: "Your armies are still retreating, sire. Machine guns and rifles out of museums are almost useless against the forbidden atomic weapons of the rebel, General Garson. At their present rate of advance, the rebels should be here in six days. During the night they captured—"
Arthur Clagg scarcely heard. His mind was concentrating on the words "six days." That was it, of course. The power group in the palace wanted to force his hand before the arrival of the rebels___He grew aware again of Doctor Parker's voice.
"… Mr. Medgerow thinks that only the fewness of their numbers prevents them from making a break-through. They—" { "Medgerow!" echoed Arthur Clagg blankly. "Who's Medgerow? Oh, I remember. That's the inventor whose writings you once tried to bring to my attention. But, as you know, science no longer interests me."
Doctor Parker clicked his tongue apologetically. "I beg your pardon, sire. I used his name quite inadvertently."
The old man made a vague it-doesn't-matter movement. He said: "Send in my valet, as you go out."
The doctor turned at the doorway. A grim look crept over his thick face. "Sire," he said, "I hope I will not seem presumptuous when I say that your friends and well-wishers will wait anxiously for you to turn the weapon on all your enemies."
He went out.
Arthur Clagg sat there, icily satiric. Fifty years, he thought, for fifty years the world had been educated against war, against the use of weapons. For fifty years he had poured the wealth of the earth into contractive channels, into social security, public works that were public and not merely political catchpolls.
The continents had been transformed; every conceivable idea for improvement within the bounds of scientific possibility had been subjected to the marvelous pressures of money and labor.
Green and fruitful in summer, gorgeously scientized in winter, peaceful and prosperous the year round, earth turned its made-over face towards its sun, a smiling, happy face. There was not an honest man alive who ought not to glory in the miracle that had been wrought during the brief span of half a century.
He had taken over a world devastated by atomic energy misused, and had changed it almost overnight into a dream of a billion wonders. And now—
Arthur Clagg suddenly felt his age. It seemed incredible that the first crisis could evoke the oldest evil impulse in human nature. Kill! Destroy all your enemies. Be merciless. Bring out the irresistible weapon.
The surge of bitter thought quieted, as a discreet knock came at the door. Arthur Clagg sat heavy with his problem as his valet entered.
At last his mind calmed with the beginning of, not decision, but purpose.
The day passed. There was nothing to do but carry on his routine—and wait for his poisoners to come to him. They knew they had only four days in which to act. They wouldn't waste any time.
The intermediary would be Nadya or Merd.
It was like a thousand other days of his old age. All around him was movement, footsteps hurrying to and from his apartment, secretaries, department heads, police agents, an almost endless line of the people who kept him in touch with what was going on. A world of low voices telling him the many facts about a gigantic government whose every action was taken in his name.
The details only had to be left out. Except for that, everything absorbed him___Trouble in Chinese Manchuria___Renewed guerrilla activity in the virgin forest land of what had once been Europe-----The cities controlled by the rebel, General Garson, were loosely held, and were not dangerous in themselves. 'Very well. Go on sending them food___" Of all the government scientists, only a man called Medgerow had a wide acquaintance among important personages in the citadel.
"Hmmm," the old man mused aloud. "Medgerow! The name has already come up once today. What's he like?"
The chief of the state police shrugged. "Cultured conversationalist, abnormal though fascinating personality. But we've got nothing on him except that a lot of people go to see him. If I may ask, sire, why this interest in scientists?"
Arthur Clagg said slowly, "To my mind, no group either inside or outside the citadel would dare to act against me in this machine age, without a scientific adviser."
The police officer said matter-of-factly: "Shall I pick him up, and put on the pressure?"
"Don't be silly." Curtly. "If he's a good scientist, the simple little games you play with mechanical hypnotism and lie detectors won't catch him. But your action would have meantime served to warn the bigger game. You have given me the information I desire: so far as you know, there is no secret revolutionary force operating inside the citadel?"
"That is correct, sire."
When the police chief had gone, Arthur Clagg sat sunk in thought. There no longer seemed any doubt. His first suspicion was correct. The poisoners were his own people.
It was the implication that was disturbing. Was it possible that, no matter how honorably a dictator might rale, his very existence kept in existence the violences of human power lusts, made bloodshed inevitable and, in its intensional structure, held the seeds of a far-wider, greater chaos than the democracy which, for ten years, he had been considering restoring?
It seemed so; only—you couldn't bring back democracy with all its implications in three days.
The day dragged. At four o'clock Nadya, made up and glittering like a movie star, came in with a rustling of silk and a clack-clack of high heels. She brushed his cheek with her perfumed lips, then lighted a cigarette and flung herself on a settee.
He thought: Nadya, poisoner. Earlier, the idea had been easy enough to accept, part of the life of intrigue that sinuated around him.
But his great-granddaughter! The last blood tie he had with the human race. All the rest, the noble Cecily, the quiet intellectual Peter, the first and loveliest Nadya, and the others, had slipped away into their graves, leaving him alone with this— this sanguinary betrayer and murderess.
The dark mood passed as swiftly as it had come, as Nadya said, "Grandfather, you're impossible!"
Arthur Clagg studied her with abrupt but detached good humor. Nadya was twenty-eight. She had a pretty face, but her eyes were hard and bright, calculating rather than thoughtful.
She had once had great influence over him, and the old man realized with a cool objectivity why that had beemso: her youth! The vibrant, purely animal spirits of a young girl had blinded him to the fact that she was just one more stranger not too cleverly out for what she could get.
That was over.
He waited. She went on earnestly. "Grandfather, what is in your mind? Are you going to permit the rebel Garson and mat upstart parliament which is sponsoring him—are you going to let yourself be shoved aside? Are you giving up without a fight, letting us all go down to ridicule and ruin because of your refusal to face the fact that human nature hasn't changed?"
Arthur Clagg asked softly, "What would you do in my place, Nadya?"
It was not an answer to her tirade; it was designed purely and simply to draw her out. Up to a year before, whenever he had given in to her wishes, that was the question that had always preceded the act of his yielding.
He saw from the way she was stiffening, that she recognized the phrase. A brilliant smile lighted her berouged face. Her eyes widened, grew eager.
"Grandfather, it's no exaggeration to say that you're probably the greatest man who has ever lived. In spite of your age and the fact that you have delegated so many of your powers* your prestige is so great that, in spite of gathering confusion resulting from the rebel march on the citadel, your world is holding together. But before you, and terribly near now, is the most important decision of your life: you must decide to use your potent weapon. For fifty years you've kept it hidden, but now you must bring it forth, and use it. With it you can decide what the future shall be. Medgerow says there is no record in history of a decision of such importance being defaulted because of the refusal of—"
"Medgerow!" ejaculated Arthur Clagg. He stopped himself. "Never mind. Go on."
Nadya was looking at him. "He's a horrible little man with a personality and an extraordinary self-confidence that make him interesting in spite of his appearance. An inventor attached to the government science bureau, I believe."
She hesitated. She seemed to realize that the full force of her argument had to be rebuilt now that it had been interrupted.
"Grandfather, in spite of all your repugnance, the fact is that good men have already died. If you don't kill the rebels, they'll go on exterminating your loyal army, and will eventually reach the citadel. I am going to suspend judgment as to what they will do to us when they get here. But it's a point you ought to consider. You can't just leave it to chance."
She stopped; she drew a deep breath; then: "You have asked me for my opinion. As plainly as I can, I want to say that I think you should disarm the rebels, and then turn your weapon over to Merd. Only through him and me can your life work be saved from violent transformations. The laws of political accession are such that other groups would have to tear down at least part of the edifice you have so carefully built up. The world might even dissolve once more into separate contending states. The death toll could reach fantastic proportions.
"Can't you see"—she was so earnest that her voice trembled-— "it is to our interest, and ours alone in all this wide world, to keep things as they are. Well"—she finished with an effort at casualness—"what do you say?"
It took a moment for the old man to realize that, for the time at least, she had finished.
After a moment, it struck him that he was not altogether displeased with her verbal picture. For all its cold-bloodedness, it was a gentle solution to a deadly situation. For, as she had said, the choice was no longer between killing and not killing. Government soldiers had already died before the blast of atomic cannon, and, according to reports, mobile artillery had wrought havoc in the rebel ranks.
Death was definitely involved.
Nevertheless only a monstrosity of a man would hand a world and its helpless people over to a gang of poisoners.
He saw that Nadya was watching him anxiously. Arthur Clagg laughed, a silent, bitter laugh. He parted his lips, but before he could speak, the young woman said, "Grandfather, I know you've hated me ever since I married Merd. You may not be aware of that dislike, but it's there; and the reason for it is emotional reaction. I haven't dared mention it to you before, but this is an ultimate crisis. Within six days atomic cannon will be burning at this citadel; and in the fire of such a reality, not even the feelings of an old man can be spared."
"Hated you!" said Arthur Clagg.
It was not a reaction. It was a pure expression, a sound having no origin in thought. He did note in a remote part of his mind that she had said six days, not four. She apparently did not anticipate a crisis at the moment of his death. The implication, that she knew nothing of the poisoning, was startling.
She could of course have such firm mental control over herself that the seemingly unconscious reaction was actually deliberate… There was no time to think about that. Nadya was speaking.
"You've hated me in a perversion of love. I was all you had, and then I got married, and, naturally, thereafter Merd and the children came first. Grandfather, don't you see—that is why you hate me."
The gathered effects of the poison made thinking hard. The old man remained stiff, and, at first, hostile. He began to brace himself mentally. With a sudden, reaching effort, he threw off the queasy weight of his sickishness. Briefly, his mind drummed with energy. Thought came in the old, flashing way.
He relaxed finally, astounded. Why, you old fool, he thoughtT She's right. That is why you disliked her. Jealousy!
He studied her from under shaggy eyebrows, curious, conscious that earlier impressions were now subject to revision. In many ways Nadya's was a distinctive face, not so good-looking but definitely aristocratic. Funny how people got that way. He himself had always had a professorish sort of countenance; and yet here was his great-granddaughter looking like a patrician.
Why was it that no one had ever adduced the natural laws that would explain why the grandchildren of people who ruled all had the same expressions on their faces?
Arthur Clagg shook himself and drew his mind back to Nadya. She had on, he decided after a moment, severely, too much make-up, almost as much as some of the hussies who fluttered around the citadel. You could scarcely blame a woman, though, for being in style.
The old man began to feel staggered. What was happening to his case against her?
Here she sat, a lean, aristocratic woman, anxious to retain her high position—who wouldn't in her place?™clever rather than intellectual, a little callous, perhaps. But all people who commanded had to harden their hearts to individual suffering.
He who had lived in an age where a tornado of atomic energy killed a billion human beings had to have as successor a person who, in the final issue, was capable of exterminating anyone daring once more to precipitate such a holocaust. And now that there was doubt as to whether Nadya was a party to the poisoning, she was again eligible.
But if she and Merd weren't guilty, who was?
The old man sat shaken, uncertain. He might never find out, of course, in spite of the fact that the need to know was rapidly becoming an obsession. But he couldn't condemn anyone without proof. He said slowly, "Leave me now, Nadya. You have presented your case well, but I have not decided. Tomorrow, I intend to… Never mind."
He waited till, with puzzled side-glances, she had left. Then he picked up his private radio phone. It took a moment to establish the connection.
"Well?" said Arthur Clagg.
The police chief's voice came. "The arrangements are made. The meeting will take place in No-Man's Land. He agrees to the presence of three bodyguards." The officer broke. "Sire, this is a most dangerous business. If anything should go wrong—"
The old man said curtly, "You are having the mobile unit outfitted according to my instructions?"
"Yes, but—" Earnestly, "Sire, I ask again, what is your purpose in talking to General Garson?" ,
The old man only smiled tightly, and hung up. He had not one but two purposes in meeting Garson. It wouldn't do to tell anyone that he intended to size up the rebel chieftain as a possible successor to himself. There was no use broadcasting his second reason either.
"Remember," said Arthur Clagg to his chief officer, "take no action till I tug at my ear."
The unpleasant part of the whole business was walking fifty feet from his mobile to where the tables and chairs had been set up in the open meadow. Every step he took twisted his insides. Gasping, he sank into one of the chairs.
He was almost at the table when a lanky individual in an ill-fitting blue uniform descended the steps of the second mobile and strode across the grass. The man's movements had something of the awkward confidence of a man who was very sure of himself but lacked good manners.
Recognition was unmistakable. The lean, bony face with its lantern jaw had already stared at Arthur Clagg several times from photographs. Even without the countenance, the nasal-twanged voice, which had sounded many times on the radio, would have made the identification inevitable. Rebel General Garson was photo- and voco-genic.
He said, "Old Man, I hope you haven't got some slick scheme up your sleeve."
It was loudly said; too loudly to be polite. But Arthur Clagg was intent and curious. Nor did he think immediately of replying. He was conscious of a genuine absorption in this man who dared oppose the irresistible weapon.
Garson had brown eyes and uncombed sandy hair. He sank into his chair, and stared unsmilingly at his aged opponent. Once more it was Garson who spoke, snappingly this time. "Get to the point, man."
Arthur Clagg hardly heard. Nor did the details of physical appearance interest him now. It was the man, his boldness in organizing a small army in a vast land, his defiance of death for an ideal—a defiance that almost in itself merited success for his enterprise.
The old man straightened his anguished body and said with dignity, "General Garson—as you will notice, I am recognizing your military title—to me you represent a trend of thought in the country. And as a result I might, if you can give me some dialectical arguments, allow parliament to be re-established under your mentorship. I am not opposed to democracy, because, except for the disaster in which it involved itself half a century ago, it was a vigorous, marvellously growing organism. I have no doubt it can be so again. The danger is the free use of atomic energy—"
"Don't worry about that—" Garson waved a gaunt hand. "My congress and I will keep it to ourselves."
"Eh!" Arthur Clagg stared across the table, not sure that he had heard correctly. He had the sudden, blank feeling that meaningless words had been projected at him.
Before he could speak, or think further, the lanky man leaned forward. The small brown eyes peered at him.
"See here, Mr. Dictator Clagg, I don't know just what you had in mind, asking me to come over. I thought maybe you wanted to surrender, now that I've called your bluff. Here's my offer: I understand you've got some kind of estate down south. Okeh. I'll let you and your granddaughter and family live there under guard. If anybody starts something, naturally they get killed. My congress will set me up as president, and I'll just slip into your position as quickly as I can. In a few months everything'll be going along as smooth as ever. That clear?"
The shock was greater. There seemed nothing to think. At last Arthur Clagg expostulated, "But see here, you haven't got a congress yet. A congress is a governing body elected by a secret ballot by the vote of all the people. Two hundred men can't just organize and call themselves congress. They—"
His voice trailed, as the implications penetrated of what he was saying. It seemed incredible but—was this man so ignorant of history that he didn't know what representative government was?
The old man tried to picture that. The psychology of it finally grew plausible. Like so many human beings, Garson was only dimly aware that there had been life before his own ego emerged from the mists of childhood. To him, that pre-Garson period must be an unsubstantial hodgepodge. Somehow the words "congress" and "president" had come down to him. And he had made his own definitions.
With an effort Arthur Clagg drew his attention back to Garson. And the thought came finally: After all, it was the courage of this creature that was fascinating. A man who had the boldness to defy the weapon must be amenable to reason and to a partial re-education.
"Boy!" Garson's voice twanged. "You sure have been smart, Clagg, All these years pretending you had a super weapon, and fixing up books and motion pictures and things to make people think it all happened the way you said. You never fooled me though; and so now you've had your day. I'll sure carry on with that weapon game, though. It—"
His voice went on, but Arthur Clagg did not listen. He waited until the sound stopped, and then with a casual gesture tugged at his ear.
He saw Garson stiffen, as the mechanical hypnotic waves struck at him. The old man wasted no time.
"Garson," he intoned, "Garson, you will be glad to tell me, tell me, tell me who gave you the blueprints for atomic cannon. Garson, was it someone in the government? Garson, it is so easy to tell me."
"But I do not know." The man's voice was far away somehow, and vaguely surprised. "They were given me by a man I do not know. He said he was an agent, an agent—"
"An agent for whom?" Arthur Clagg pressed.
"I do not know."
"But didn't you care? Didn't it worry you?"
"No, I figured as soon as I had the cannon, the other fellow would have to start worrying."
After three minutes, Arthur Clagg tugged at his ear—- and Garson came back to normal life. He looked a little startled, but the old man was not worried about the suspicions of a ^so completely ignorant man. He said, "Since I gave you my word, Mister, you may depart at once in perfect safety. I would advise you, however, to keep on traveling, because tomorrow no one in the vicinity of an atomic cannon will be alive. In any event I shall advise"—pause—"my great-grandson-in-law, my heir and successor, to hunt you down and have you brought to justice."
He was thinking as he finished: there was no time for further choice.
The house was one of a row of pleasant mansions that stood amid greenery in the shadow of the towering peak of a building that was the citadel.
The outer door must have opened by remote electrical control because, When Doctor Parker had gone through, he found himself in a narrow metal hallway. A tiny bulb in the ceiling shed a white glow upon a second door, which was all metal. The doctor stood motionless, then he called, shrilly, "Medgerow, what's all this?"
There was a mechanical chuckle from one of the walls. "Don't get excited, Doctor. As you know, the whole situation is now entering the critical stage, and I am taking no chances."
"B-but I've been here a hundred times before, and I've never seen any of this—this fortification."
"Good!" Medgerow's voice came again through the wall-speaker. He sounded pleased. "It would take an atomic cannon or"—pause—"Arthur Clagg's Contradictory Force to blast me out of this. But come in."
The second door opened into a panelled hallway and clanged behind Parker. A small man was waiting there for him. He chuckled as he saw Parker, then said curtly, "Well, your report, man! You administered the poison successfully?"
The doctor did not reply as he followed the other into the living room. These first moments in the presence of Medgerow always made him uneasy… Adjustment from normalcy to abnormalcy was a semi-involved process.
It wasn't so much, Parker realized bleakly for the hundredth time, that Medgerow's ugliness by itself was so jarring. A thousand males picked up at random from the streets outside would have yielded a dozen whose physical characteristics were less prepossessing. Medgerow differed in that he exuded a curious, terrible aura of misshapen strength. His personality had the concreteness of the hump of a hunchback. It seemed to make him not quite human. Parker had discovered that, by letting only the corner of his eyes be aware of the man, he could tolerate his presence. That was what he did now.
"Yes, I administered the poison last night. And all day he has been feeling the first effects."
The image in the corner of the doctor's vision stood stock still. "He will die in four days?"
"About midnight on the fourth day."
There was silence. The figure remained still. But at last Medgerow said with a compelling quietness, "I shall not make the mistake of the new princes of history. I have no desire to be dragged, as was Cromwell, out of my grave and hanged as a public spectacle. Nor shall I be so slow in starting my executions as were the early French revolutionists. And as for those talkative idiots, Felix Pyat and Delescluze in 1871 Paris-—it makes me sick just to think about them. Mussolini was caught in the same net. He allowed his potential destroyers and betrayers to remain alive. Hitler, of course, had half his work done for him when the Allies rid Germany of the Hohenzollern regime. He made one mistake: the United States."
The quiet voice grew abruptly savage. "But enough of this. I shall be ruthless. The possessor of Arthur Clagg's Contradictory Force weapon rules the world, provided he makes certain that no possible assassin remains alive on the face of the earth."
"But are you sure?" Parker interrupted anxiously. "Are you absolutely sure that you can nullify his weapon long enough to seize control of it? How can you be positive that he will even use it, and so give you a chance to seize it?"
Medgerow clicked his tongue impatiently. "Of course, I'm not sure. I am basing my estimations on the character of a man whose actions, speeches, and writings I have studied for years. At this very moment, I'll warrant, the old man has practically decided to use the weapon in one way or another. In my opinion, he will use it to act against the rebels, and will then turn the weapon over to his son-in-law. This is all to the 'good. I want him to stamp out the rebel force before I move against him.
"All this, however, will not happen tomorrow. If I read Arthur Clagg aright, he will first seek a meeting with General Garson, the rebel leader. He will find a man who embodies the worst features of the demagogue. And, besides, Garson has dared to use atomic power. That, as I have told you, will balance in the old man's mind his suspicion that his great-granddaughter helped to poison him. Oh, yes, he'll use the weapon. And that"—the little monstrosity of a man chuckled—"is where I come in. Little did Arthur Clagg realize fifty years ago that he established a precedent, and became the first, not the last, of the scientist leaders. Now that men's minds accept such a possibility, scientists will begin to think in that direction, unconsciously molding their lives and their works with the hope of power in their minds. Such are the laws of dialectical materialism. But now—"
He broke off, and there was suddenly a more savage intensity; he grew quiet. "Thanks for coming, Doctor. As you know, we couldn't take the chance of a phone call being intercepted, particularly as the secret police have been making guarded inquiries about me."
As they shook hands, Medgerow, his blue eyes glistening, said, "You've done well, Parker. I'm sorry you were too squeamish to use the real poison, but that can be remedied when I get into power. As it is, your assistance in helping me-force the old man to bring out his weapon will gain you the reward you desire. Arthur Clagg's great-granddaughter, Nadya, will be given you in marriage as soon as her husband has been decently disposed
"Thank you," said Parker quietly.
Contemptuous-eyed, the little man watched him go. He thought coldly: silly ass! Couldn't he see that the public necessities of the situation required that the only natural heir of the former dictator marry the new ruler? Pawns didn't take queens in this game.
For old Arthur Clagg speed was essential. He sent the invitations to Merd and Nadya for that afternoon. They arrived shortly after lunch. In spite of himself, the old man found himself staring at his great-grandson-in-law, seeking in the man's lean face reassurance that the colossal trust he was about to receive would not be misused. He saw gray eyes, dark hair, a rather fine, sensitive face with stern lips—exactly the same physical characteristics, the same person, he had so violently disliked from the very first announcement of Nadya's betrothal The body, not the mind, was visible.
It was not enough. The thought was a pain briefly greater than the agony of the poison. Outward appearances didn't count And yet, the decision was made. A man with two days to live couldn't think of anything but the easy solution. Arthur Clagg said curtly, "Lock all the doors. We're going to uncover the weapon. It will require most of the afternoon."
Merd said explosively. "You mean, it's here?"
The old man ignored that. He went on drably. "The weapon is mounted inside a plastic airplane powered by four gas turbine jets and strato rockets. This machine is hidden in the east wing of the citadel which, as you perhaps know, was built by workers from every part of the world. The employment of men from far places who did not speak the same language made it possible to construct a hiding place without anyone guessing its true purpose."
He broke off, fumbled in his coat pocket, and produced a key.
"This will unlock a tool cupboard next to my bathroom. Bring the tools in here. You will need them all to uncover and then activate the mechanical keys that will open the hidden chamber."
It took time, the two young people silent and intent on their unaccustomed work, carting machine saws, atomic drills, mobile planes into various indicated parts of the living room. When all the tools were gathered, the old man motioned them to the settee near him, and began. "There has been a great deal of wild talk about the nature of my weapon. The speculation was quite unnecessary because many years ago I very foolishly gave out some of the theory in a series of articles published in the government science gazette. It was foolish, not because anyone will be able to duplicate the weapon but because—"
He broke off, frowning. "Never mind. I'll explain that later."
He went on, quietly, "The theory behind the Contradiction Force penetrates to the inner core of the meanings of life and of movement. Life, as you know, has been defined as orderly movement. There is movement also in inorganic matter, but this is a primitive version and is explained by the larger concept. What makes movement possible? Why does not matter, organic or inorganic, simply collapse into its basic components, and, thus inert, fulfill its apparently senseless destiny?
"You might answer that things are as they are because electrons whirl in orbits according to fixed laws, forming atoms which, in their turn, have a physically logical relationship to the larger structure of molecules, and so on. But that would be merely evading the issue.
"Movement occurs in an object because in it, in its very basic oneness, there is an antithesis, a contradiction. It is only because a thing contains a contradiction within itself that it moves and acquires impulse and activity.
"The theory by itself suggested the nature of the research: I found first what were the laws governing the contradiction in various types of matter, and I then started to develop a force to interfere with it. The mechanical problem of practicalizing the theory involved in its simplest functions the procuration of a force that would cause the contradiction in any given matter to operate, not in the orderly fashions that nature has laboriously evolved, but uncontrollably. Those who have not seen it in action cannot imagine how terrible the result is. IHs not, has no relation to, atomic energy. As a destructive force, the hellish active area in the interior of a nova sun possibly equals it in violence, but such a sun cannot even theoretically surpass it.
"Fortunately, heat is not a by-product, as would be the case if the force were related to atomic or electrical energy. It was only long after the weapon was an actuality that I discovered that I had hit on a billion-to-one chance, that my discovery was an accident that cannot be repeated in a million years. Tomorrow you will see it in action."
He paused and frowned, partly with pain, partly because he was worried.
"The weapon has only one aspect that is dangerous to us. It can be nullified by a simple, electrically induced magnetic flow in the object on which it is focused. That is why I was foolish in giving out the theory. Someday, somewhere, a smart scientist will discover the nullifying principle—and the weapon will cease to be a factor in world politics. I must confess I have worried about that in the dark watches of many nights. But now"—he straightened slowly—"let us get to work___"
Minute by minute, as the hours passed, his choice seemed more and more final.
The third day dawned cloudless. It was one of those brightly perfect spring mornings. The world below the plane was a panorama of emerging green. Even now, with the anguish tearing at his body, it was hard for Arthur Clagg to realize that, in this setting of eternally youthful soil, his mortality was finding its final expression.
They came to the rebel lines, and began to circle. The telescopes showed metal glinting among the trees below-—and Arthur Clagg, with Nadya leaning over his shoulder, examined the maps the army had supplied.
"Climb higher," he ordered finally. And again, minutes later, "Higher."
"But we're up about thirty-five miles," Merd protested. "We've already used up three-quarters of our rocket fuel."
"Higher!" said the old man inexorably. "The problem at all times with this weapon is to remain clear of the explosion. When I first estimated mathematically its power, I hardly believed my figures. Fortunately, I had the sense to rig up a device that would cut off the force after one millionth of a second. If I do that now, and set this dial to 'metal,' only the outermost rim of atoms on the one cannon below that I'm aiming at will be affected."
He finished, "When you have five minutes' fuel left, tell me."
Merd's voice came over the earphones. "Less than five minutes left now. I'll have to turn over to the jets."
"Steady!" said Arthur Clagg.
He had left the telescopic sights, and was swinging the gun around, locking it into place. Once more he looked through the sights. He pressed the trigger.
The ground below turned bluer than the sky. For a long moment, it looked like a placid lake in a glacier. Then the lake was gone. And where there had been trees and green beauty was a gray-black hole thirty miles in diameter.
Desert!
"Grandfather," Nadya cried. "The gun is swinging back. It'll hit you."
The old man did not move from the sights. The gun swung in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc, and clicked back into position just beside his head. He said, without looking up, "It's all right I made it that way."
A moment longer he looked, then he straightened. Awareness came that the plane was shuddering with speed, the jets whistling shrilly.
He sat down. He leaned back, weary, feeling strangely old. Slowly he straightened, fighting the pain and the fatigue. Merd's voice came over the phones.
"Grandfather, there's news coming through from the citadel. Some idiot has started a revolution. Listen!"
A strange voice sounded: "___A rebellion in the air force… uprising in the citadel garrison, with fighting now going on in the gardens. A man named Medgerow has declared himself to be the new dictator—"
There was more, but Arthur Clagg's mind followed it no further. Medgerow. Funny, how the name had come up so often the last few days, almost like predestination. Nadya had mentioned him, and Parker.
The old man sagged a little. Parker… poison. For a moment, the connection seemed impossible. What could be the man's motive? Except for a tendency to lose control of his emotions, Parker was a timid, cautious fellow with a reasonably good mind.
Arthur Clagg sighed. There was no use thinking about it. Medgerow had precipitated a palace revolution before the arrival of Garson. Like Garson, the new usurper was apparently not taking the slightest notice of an old man and his mythical Contradictory Force.
Perhaps he should have announced in advance his intention to use it.
No use worrying about that now. The die was cast, and there were things to do. He straightened.
"Nadya."
"Yes, Grandfather."
"Jump."
He had almost forgotten that people never disobeyed him when he took that tone, that manner; it was so long since he had used it.
One measured look she gave him. Then she was running forward to Merd. She came back, tears in her eyes. Her lips touched his. She said, "I shall join the children at the Lodge, and wait till I hear from you."
He watched her fall into the blue haze. It was five minutes later that Merd's voice came over the radio.
"There're some planes following us, Grandfather. What—"
Three times Arthur Clagg pressed the trigger of the Contradictory Force weapon, but the planes came on, untouched, unharmed. At last he whispered his defeat over the phone. "Better obey their signal, Merd, and go down. There's nothing we can do."
They were actually landing before he realized he was still holding the weapon. He stared down grimly at the now useless double cone, and then let it slip clear of his fingers. He watched it swing back in its one-hundred-eighty-degree arc, and click metallically into its rest position.
It lay in its cradle, still omnipotent under the right conditions. But by the time it was used again, Merd and he would be dead, and the law and order world he had created would be scrambled by the passions of men. And it would take a hundred years to put all the pieces together again.
The devil of it, the irony, was that Medgerow had no reason to use it immediately… He felt the plane settling on its jets. Gently it touched the ground. Merd left the controls and came back to him.
"They're signalling us to get off," he said quietly.
Arthur Clagg nodded. In silence they climbed to the ground. They were about a hundred feet away when the other planes began to disgorge men, most of whom carried tubes of rocket fuel to the big plane. One of the men, however, a tall chap in air force uniform, came over.
He said insolently, "The Medgerow orders that you be searched."
The Medgerow. Merd submitted stonily, but the old man watched the procedure with a bleak admiration for its thoroughness.
When the man had finished, Arthur Clagg said, "Satisfy my curiosity. Why did you rebel?"
The officer shrugged. "The—deadness—you created was killing my will to live. The Medgerow is going to release atomic energy. We're going to the planets, perhaps even the stars, in my lifetime."
When the officer had gone, Arthur Clagg turned to Merd.
"My desire for order grew out of the hideous misuse of atomic energy. But I always knew that man was the Contradictory Force of the organic universe, and that sooner or later, for better of worse, he must again be allowed to play with that ultimate fire. Apparently, the time has come."
A small man was climbing out of the nearest plane. He carried an atomic blaster in one hand. He came forward briskly. And even though he had never seen Medgerow before, it seemed to Arthur Clagg that he would have recognized him anywhere, without any more description that he had already received by chance.
Merd was speaking distastefully, "I've discovered that by letting only the comer of my eyes be aware of him, I can stand his presence."
It was an odd and altogether fascinating statement. The words drew the old man's attention briefly away from Medgerow. He felt momentarily absorbed by the insight they gave into Merd's character.
He found himself liking his son-in-law better.
There was no time to think about either Merd or his words.
Medgerow stood before them.
He looked abnormal. It wasn't so much, Arthur Clagg decided bleakly, that Medgerow's ugliness was jarring in itself. A thousand males picked at random would have yielded a dozen whose physical characteristics were less prepossessing.
Perhaps it was the triumphant smile on his face, with its frank and unashamed arrogance. It was hard to tell. The man exuded a curious, terrible aura of misshapen strength. His personality protruded with the concretness of the hump of a hunchback.
Gazing at him, old Arthur Clagg felt a chill, a sick consciousness of the extent of his failure. It seemed incredible that he had let himself be panicked into using his weapon, and had not once suspected that that was exactly what his hidden enemy was working for.
He thought: The Medgerow, heir of earth-----The very idea was shattering.
Medgerow broke the silence, coolly. "In a moment I shall get into your plane and start climbing. As soon as I have reached a safe height, I shall fire at this"—he drew a strip of metal from his pocket, and tossed it onto the ground—"with your weapon. I like ironies like that."
For a moment, the old man could not believe that he had heard aright. The intention, so deliberately stated, was so far-reaching in its implications, so unexpected, that it seemed impossible. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The hope that came shook his very bones; it had no parallel in the long history of his career.
It was Merd who finally reacted vocally, Merd who said violently, "But there's a city of fifty thousand over there about eight miles. You can't fire the weapon so near it."
Arthur Clagg fumbled at Merd's arm. He wanted to tell the young fool to stop arguing. Couldn't he see that Medgerow was playing into their hands?
Merd cried, "Put a bullet through our brains, you damned murderer. You can't destroy a whole city. You can't I"
Once more, in a haze of anxiety now, Arthur Clagg parted his lips to utter words that would silence Merd. Just in time, he saw the look on Medgerow's face. And closed them again.
No words were needed. The best ally he had in this fateful moment was the Medgerow himself.
The little man stood, head flung back proudly. His eyes blazed with sardonic joy. "Force and terror—those are the weapons that win, when there are no undefeated armies extant to support opposition groups. I shall use the weapon on you because I have to test its operation anyway. I shall do this here and now because nothing will better convince the world of my unalterable determinations than the destruction of a city. So true is this that, if the city had not been to hand, it would have been necessary for me to transport all of us to its vicinity."
He finished cynically, "It will be a simple matter, once I am established, to propagandize people into believing that it was you, not I, who destroyed it."
Merd said tensely, "You can't do this. It's not human."
Firmly, this time, the old man caught his arm. "Merd," he said resonantly, "can't you see it's useless? We're dealing with a man who has a plan, a settled policy of conquest."
The remark seemed to please Medgerow. He said with satisfaction, "That's right. Argument is useless. I never missed a bet in my strategy. You did everything exactly as I intended you to. Your decision had to be made too swiftly. You had no time to think."
"My foolishness," said Arthur Clagg quietly, "was in thinking all these days and years that there was a decision to be made. I've just realized that, actually, I made my choice long ago. I chose, not self, but the good of all mankind, whereas you have chosen self."
"Eh!" Medgerow stared at him intently, as if searching for a hidden meaning. He laughed. Then he said, arrogantly, "Enough of this chatter. You ruined yourself twenty years ago, Arthur Clagg, when you ignored the letters sent you by a struggling science student, myself. I realize now you probably didn't even receive them. But that excuse doesn't apply to later years when powerful friends tried to draw my work to your attention and you wouldn't even look at it."
He was suddenly livid with rage. He spat. "Twenty years of obscurity-----During the next twenty minutes I'll let you think of what might have been if you had treated me from the beginning according to my merits."
He whirled away. The plane door clanged behind him. The gas turbines whined. The jets hissed. Lightly, swiftly, the plane rose into the sky. It became a dot.
After a minute, the other planes took off; the two men were alone.
There was a long silence. At last, cold and contemptuous, Merd said, "This creature cannot see that you are not, and never were, his type of dictator. The history of democracies teaches that in emergencies people will temporarily surrender their liberties. No greater emergency ever existed than the release of atomic energy. The period of control has been a long one, because the world had to be reorganized; and, like a new mold, allowed to set. In my considered opinion, the people are ready again to take over; and no one, not Medgerow, not me, not all the force anyone can possibly exert will stop them."
"Why, Merd," said Arthur Clagg, "I didn't know you felt like that. In fact, you have provided me with a whole series of pleasant shocks. Under pressure, you have showed a very great number of golden attributes. Accordingly, I herewith commission you to begin re-establishing democracy as soon as we return to the citadel."
The young man gazed at him thoughtfully. At last, shakily, he asked, "W-what did you say? Back to the citadel-----"
Arthur Clagg felt a sudden sympathy for his great-grandson-in-law, a sharp understanding of the agonized turmoil being experienced by a man who had geared himself to death, and now was confronted by the possibility of life.
It seemed curiously important that Merd suffer no more than he had to. The old man said grimly, "I was terrified that someday the Contradictory Force would be set off accidentally. I therefore constructed the weapon so that its muzzle resembled its stock. I placed it so that it would swing around automatically after I had fired it, and point up towards the sky or towards any stranger who might be impelled to fire it. That is the position it is in this very moment, as Medgerow stands aiming it."
Old Arthur Clagg finished in a ringing tone, "Not with Medgerow, but in your hands, Merd, lies the destiny of mankind."
He did not know then that the poison inside him was only a substitute, and that he would be the wise old mentor of the new and lusty civilization of the stars.