Pater Riggin looked up, closing the book again.
“It was true in Twain’s time, and much more so today. Given the well disciplined press, given well channeled Tri-Di shows and news broadcasts, given a people that have been raised since earliest childhood in the chauvinistic belief that their country is always right; and even if it isn’t they should support it—given these, and you can have your war, Jim. Of course, if it lasted too long, then there would be reaction. But so long as the man in the street isn’t too badly put out, you can have your war, Number One.”
The other pretended to miss the term. He said, “Rig, you know Phil McGivern.”
The Temple Monk said wryly, “Our authority on socioeconomics.”
“His computers tell him that without new foreign markets and sources of raw material we face an economic collapse in a few months. The system won’t take it, Rig.”
His lifelong companion looked at him unblinkingly.
Number One continued, an undertone of urgency in his voice as though pleading for understanding. “It would mean more civil disorders, Rig. More fighting in the streets. More of the bloodbath we had when Max and his group tried to take over.”
The Temple Monk looked away. He and his present companion had never discussed, more than in passing, the coup d’etat attempted by their mutual friend, Maximilian Barker.
He said gently, “Possibly Max had the right idea and we didn’t realize it at the time.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” the Presidor rasped. “You can push our friendship too far, Pater Riggin. Max was a damned rabid Karlist, and you know it!”
Pater Riggin shook his head, unimpressed by the sudden heat. “No, I don’t. All I know is that your Commissariats of Surety and Information branded him such, and over and over again, and loudly, and to the skies. Until, possibly, even you believed them. It’s a dangerous thing, Jim, to believe your own propaganda, but it comes to all men if they listen to it long enough.”
Number One came suddenly to his feet. He threw the half smoked stogie down, missing the ash tray. The long slim cigar hit the table and rolled across it to drop unheeded on the floor beyond.
The ultimate head of Alphaland strode angrily to the bar, took up the bottle from which he had poured earlier, on his first entry into the room, and poured again, this time into a tumbler. He threw the potent brandy back over his palate, grimaced and turned to a bank of dials, levers and buttons set next to a bookcase.
He snarled at his friend, “The ultimate computer. The foolproof adviser. The computer designed for the layman.”
He snatched up a hand mike and roared into it. “In the event that war is not provoked with Betastan within two months, what will the result be so far as the Presidor is concerned?”
The answer came from the speaker so quickly that it would seem that the angry man’s voice had scarcely died away.
“The likelihood of armed revolt against the present occupant of the office is ninety-one point eight percent, Give or take one point four percent.”
“Who would lead such a revolt?”
“The likelihood is that the revolt would be led by one or a combination of two or more of three men: Deputies Matheison and Fielder and Marshal Croft-Gordon.”
“Would such a revolt be successful?”
“The likelihood of the revolt’s success would be eighty-two percent, give or take three point three percent.”
“In the case of the revolt’s success, what would be the likelihood of a war then being undertaken against Betastan?”
“Ninety-six percent, give or take two point one percent.”
He slammed down the hand mike into its cradle and began to turn to his companion, but then he said, “No!” and took it up again.
“Would the United Temple support the government of the current Presidor if he declared war upon Betastan?”
“The likelihood is ninety-eight point six percent that the United Temple would support the Presidor, give or take one-half of one percent.”
Number One turned back to his only intimate and now his Prussian starched shoulders had slipped into resignation.
“So you see, even the Holy Ultimate, through his representatives on this planet, supports the war. Any ideas, Rig?”
Tilly Trice looked over the newcomer and made a wryly humorous moue.
“You don’t look like much of a soldier, Centurion,” she said.
He said ungraciously, “Neither do you. Isn’t that part of the idea?”
“How old are you, anyway?”
His youthful face was petulant. “That’s none of your business.”
Her fine eyebrows went up. “Tu, tu, tu. You’re talking to a superior officer, Centurion.”
“Yes, sir. I mean…”
The slightly built girl laughed. “I never felt right about that either. However, the correct term is madam.”
“Yes, sir.” The other flushed. “I mean madam. Trouble is, you don’t look like a madam.” He jerked his head in alarm. “That is…”
She laughed again. “All right, let’s cut out this jetsam. Wait’ll I change my clothes, and we’ll get going.” She ran her eyes over him critically. “You look all right.” She thought of something. “Are you carrying a shooter?”
“Of course.”
“Well, ditch it, right here and now. Are you drivel happy? You think you’re going to get into a government building carrying as much metal as that?”
She indicated a desk. “Stick it in there.” She turned to go into the next room, the living quarters behind her store.
He put the gun into a drawer, scowling. “There’s no way of locking this. Anybody snooping around would see it.”
Just before she passed through the door she looked back at him scornfully and said, “Centurion Combs, face reality. If Alphaland Surety ever became suspicious enough to start seriously snooping around this place they’d find so much that the jig’d be up. One shooter, more or less, wouldn’t make an iota.”
She left and he spent the next ten minutes staring at the shelves of books. He had never seen this many outside of a museum. He took one or two down from the shelves and handled them gingerly. He decided it must have been a tedious way of reading.
When Tilly returned he looked at her for a moment, frowning, obviously in lack of recognition.
“Knock it.” She laughed, in a just-short-of giggle. “It’s me.”
He stared at her, his eyes going up and down her masculine costume. Finally, for lack of something else, he demanded, “Where’d you get those buck teeth?”
She snorted, “Centurion, I don’t know where you received your ECE training. Cosmetics can whip up a disguise like this before you could get down a glass of guzzle.”
“I don’t drink,” he said righteously. “Besides, I didn’t study at the Espionage-Counter-Espionage Academy.”