The computer reported that Doon's persona, the dictator of Italy, had vanished, and would-be assassins couldn't put him to death. And as Rome itself fell to an invading army from Nigeria and America, he knew that now defeat and destruction were inevitable. Impossible yesterday, inevitable today.
Still he fought his despair, and sent an urgent message to Grey, forgetting that he had fired him that morning. Grey responded as deferently as ever.
"Offer to buy Italy," Herman said.
"Now? The thing's in ruins."
"I might pull it out. I still might. Surely he's proved his point by now."
"I'll try," Grey said.
But by late evening, there was no pink on the board. The other players and the computer's ironclad adherence to the laws of public behavior had left the game no chance of Italy's rebirth. The information appeared on the status lists. "Iran: newly independent; Italy: discontinued; Japan: at war with China and India over the domination of Siberia..." No special notice. Nothing. Italy: discontinued.
Grimly Herman played back all the information he could find in the computer. How had Doon done it? It was impossible. But for hours as he pored over the information the computer gave him, Herman began to see the endless machinations that Doon had set in motion, always postponing revolution here, advancing it there, antagonizing here, soothing there, so that when the full revolution erupted it was universal; so that when Italy's defeat was obvious, there was no lingering desire to have some fragment of it remain. He had gauged the hatred better than the computer itself; he had destroyed more thoroughly than any man had ever built. And in his bitterness at the wrecking of his creation, Herman still had to recognize a kind of majesty in what Doon had done. But it was a satanic majesty, a regal power to destroy.
"A mighty hunter before the Lord," said Doon, and Herman whirled to see Doon standing in his living room.
"How did you get in here," Herman stammered.
"I have connections," Doon said, smiling. "I knew you'd never let me in, and I had to see you."
"You've seen me," Herman said, and turned away.
"It went faster than I thought it would," Doon said.
"Glad to know something could surprise you."
Doon might have said more, but at that point Herman's self-control, overstrained that day, broke down. He didn't weep, but he did grip the console of the computer far too tightly, as if afraid that when he let go the centrifugal force of Capitol's rotation would throw him into space.
Grey and two doctors came at Doon's anonymous call, and the doctors pried Herman's fingers away hvm the console and led him to bed. A sedative and some instructions to Grey, and they left again. It was only mild-- too much in one day, that's all. He'd feel much better when he woke up.
Herman felt much better when he woke up. He had slept dreamlessly-- the sedatives did their work well. The false sunlight streamed through his expensive artificial window, which seemed to open on the countryside outside Florence, though of course in reality nothing but another flat much like his own was on the other side of that wall. Herman looked at the sunlight and wondered if the illusion was good. He had been born on Capitol-- he had no idea whether sunlight really streamed into windows that way.
Under the dazzling light, Abner Doon sat on a chair, asleep. Seeing him brought a flood of feelings back to Herman-- but he retained his control, and the vestiges of the drugs made him oddly calm about things, after all. He watched his grandson's sleeping face and wondered how so much hatred could be hidden there.
Doon awoke. He looked immediately at his grandfather, saw that he was awake, and smiled gently. But he said nothing. Just stood and carried his chair closer to Herman's bed. Herman watched him silently, and wondered what was going to happen. But the drug kept saying, "I don't care what happens," and Herman didn't care what was going to happen.
"Is it all discharged?" he asked softly, and Doon only smiled more broadly.
"You're so young," Doon said. And then, so quickly that Herman had no time (and the drug gave him no inclination) to resist, the younger man reached out and touched Herman's forehead lightly. The hand was dry, and it traced the faint lines that had begun to cleave the skin. "You're so young."
Am I? Herman thought, as he rarely did, of how old he was in real time. He had gone on somec-- what, seventy years ago? At his average rate of one out of four, that meant it had been only seventeen years of subjective time since he had first been able to use the sleeping drug, the gift of eternal life. Seventeen years. And all of them devoted to building Italy. And yet.
And yet those seventeen years hadn't even been half the time he had lived. Subjectively, he wasn't forty yet. Subjectively, he could start again. Subjectively, there was more than enough time for him to make an empire that even Doon couldn't break down.
"But I can't, can I?" Herman asked, unaware that his question arose from private thoughts.
Yet Doon understood. "I've learned everything you know about building, Grandfather," he said. "But you'll never understand what I've learned about tearing down."
Herman smiled wanly, the only kind of smile available to him under the drug. "It's a field of study I largely ignored."
"And yet it's the only one with eternal results. Build well, and eventually your beautiful creation, Grandfather, with or without my help, eventually it will fall. But destroy thoroughly, destroy effectively, and what was wrecked will never be rebuilt. Never."
And the drug took Herman's fury and hatred and turned it into regret and gentle grief. Tears spun from his eyelashes as he blinked.
"Italy was beautiful," he said.
Doon only nodded.
And as the tears now began to flow smoothly onto the pillow, Herman whimpered, "Why'd you do it, boy?"
"It was practice."
"Practice for what?"
"Saving the human race."
The drug permitted Herman to smile a little at that. "Quite a warm-up, boy. What can you dystroy now, after Italy?"
Doon said nothing. He just walked to the window and looked through it.
"Do you know what's going on outside your window?"
Herman mumbled, "No."
"Peasants are pressing olives. And bringing food to Florence. A lovely scene, Grandfather. Very pastoral."
"Does that mean it's spring? Or autumn?"
"Who remembers?" Doon asked. "Who cares? The seasons are what we say they are on every world in the Empire, and on Capitol we care nothing for seasons at all. We've mastered everything, haven't we? The Empire is powerful, and even the attempts of the enemy to attack us are only the annoyance of mosquitoes."
The word mosquito meant nothing to Herman, but he was too weary to ask.
"Grandfather, the Empire is stable. Not as perfect as Italy, perhaps, but strong and stable and with somec keeping the elite alive for centuries, what force could possibly topple the Empire?"
Herman struggled to think. He had never thought of the Empire as being a nation, like those in the International Games. The Empire was-- was reality. Nothing would ever hurt it. "Nothing can hurt the Empire," Herman said.
"I can," Doon said.
"You're insane," Herman answered.
"Probably," Doon said, and then the conversation lagged and the drug decided that Herman would sleep. He slept.
"I want to see Doon," Herman told Grey.