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 had 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. Jenghiz 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 Philips 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. Philip 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.
Dominoes
'MONEY!' his wife screamed at him. 'You're killing yourself, Will. Pull out of the market and let's go some place where we can live like human—'
He slammed the apartment door on her reproaches and winced, standing in the carpeted corridor, as an ulcer twinge went through him.
The elevator door rolled open and the elevator man said, beaming:
'Good morning, Mr. Born. It's a lovely day today.'
'I'm glad, Sam,' W. J. Born said sourly. 'I just had a lovely, lovely breakfast.' Sam didn't know how to take it, and compromised by giving him a meager smile.
'How's the market look, Mr. Born?' he hinted as the car stopped on the first floor. 'My cousin told me to switch from Lunar Entertainment, he's studying to be a pilot, but the Journal has it listed for growth.'
