Both men seemed to move at once, so rapidly that Maureen Furness saw for a moment only a confused blur of movement. Hesketh Uranov had leaped for the knife, snatching it from the floor and driving it toward Breakstone’s heart. But at the same instant, Gan Garrett sprang between. His right hand caught Uranov’s, wrenched at the wrist, and forced the dagger down. His left connected squarely with the point of Breakstone’s jaw.
Garrett stood looking down at the sprawled body of the producer-directorfuehrer. “Failing my popgun,” he said, “my left is the best instantaneous anesthetic I know.”
Uranov rubbed his aching wrist and grunted. “What good is that? Let me kill him. I know the consequences. I know your W.B.I. oath and I know you’ll take me in and have me sent on a one-way trip. But my life doesn’t count, and his death does.
“Uh-huh. So we kill Breakstone, and where are we? We’ve still got his henchmen to reckon with, his gauleiters. The late Mr. Hartle can’t have been the only one. And there’s still that mob outside, hungry for anything that isn’t peace. No, Breakstone knew what he was doing when he made his big gesture.”
“It was the gestrue of a megalomaniac fool. They’ll all go too far and end by destroying themselves. This gesture was Breakstone’s invasion of Russia.”
“It’s going to turn out that way, but he didn’t see that far. It made sense to him—a psychological trick to bolster his own morale, and no danger attached. He knew we were sensible enough to see that his death couldn’t possibly do any good.” Garrett crossed to the unconscious Astra Ardless and picked up the pistol that had marred her vanishing beauty. “It seems like years I’ve been on the track of this lovestonite weapon, and this is the first time I’ve held one in my hand. Neat little gadget, isn’t it?”
“But what are we going to do?” Maureen protested. “You say S.B.’s death couldn’t do us any good. Then what do we gain by just knocking him out?”
“Listen. You heard him mention two-meter lovestonite weapons for attacking cities. I didn’t know they were working on such a scale. I wonder . . . yes, they could be terrific. Use a huge aluminum-foil mirror for charging them . . . yes. All right. Remember what he said about turning the night into a new day? Remember what the men out there are rebelling against and what they want?”
The door dilated, and one of Breakstone’s guards stepped in. He found himself looking straight into Garrett’s lovestonite pistol.
“Come on in,” Garrett urged politely. “Right this way. Take his pistol, Uranov, and keep him covered.”
The man’s eyes went to S.B.’s body, then to Garrett’s face. His mouth half-opened, but his eyes shifted to Garrett’s hand and he was silent.
“Good boy,” Garrett commended him. “I’ve got a little job for you.”
The man kept his eyes on the pistol and nodded. He had seen it work on Stag Hartle.
“And the first thing, if the lady will please turn away her eyes, is for you to strip.”
Gan Garrett stood on the balcony, in the uniform of Breakstone’s personal guard. His stolen female garments would not have become him in this crucial moment. Oratory, he felt, did not become him, either. But oratory was a necessary weapon of demagogy, and was demagogy at times perhaps a necessary weapon to bring him to his own higher aims?
The mob, long awaiting its leader, muttered restlessly. Garrett found the switch of the speaker, turned it, and began the most important words he was ever to say.
“Listen, men. You are gathered to hear your orders from your leader.”
There was a roar of impatient agreement.
“Very well. I bring you your orders from your leader. But not from Breakstone. Breakstone is through.”
There was a furious outcry of protest. The flash of a lovestonite pistol seared the wall just to Garrett’s right. He stepped up to the speaker to dominate the crowd noise and spoke urgently: “Listen: Would I be here speaking to Breakstone’s men from Breakstone’s balcony if he hadn’t been bested? And do you want a leader who can be bested? Then listen to me. Hear the new words, the new orders, the new war.”
The murmur of the mob died down slowly, reluctantly. He could catch the dim echo of phrases: “—might as well—”
“—got to find out what goes—”
“—so what the hell; let’s hear what he—”
“Breakstone,” he repeated, “is through. He was a great leader, but a blind and foolish one. I offer you a greater. He planned to lead you on a great war, but a cruel and pointless one. I offer you a greater.”
There began to be mutterings of welcome, almost approbation from the crowd.
Garrett found his mind unwontedly praying, praying that this idea would work and that he might be worthy to carry it out. “You came with Breakstone,” he went on, “because you were not happy alone and in peace. Man demands more than that. He does not want to be his lonely self; he yearns for a great man, a great leader in whom he can put his trust. He does not want peace; he wants life and action and the great crusade of war.”
There was a handful of scattered cheers from below.
“Let me tell you about the crusade I bring you. See how it dwarfs Luna City. There were always wars in the old world because man needed his crusade. Because in wartime there came new life and new vigor. Because the weak piping times of peace were not worthy of man. And now, for these same reasons, Breakstone was leading you to war in this new world. Peace was not worthy of man—nor was man worthy of peace. He made peace into something weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. While peace, true peace—
“We fight a war; but in peacetime we relax
