The time they’d picked was an annual celebration at which Blodgett traditionally showed himself. It was always held in a big outdoor arena, and there would be thousands of spectators. Blodgett would be well guarded, of course, but they couldn’t possibly screen everybody who got into the arena. All the revolutionists needed was an inconspicuous weapon, and it seemed that the underground’s scientists had perfected one about eight months ago and had been turning them out in quantity in a hidden factory. Eve didn’t know where the factory was. She and Charlie were the liaison agents, who were to pick up the completed weapons from other agents and take them to distribution points.
The weapon was a miniature bazooka. Only two inches long, it could be concealed so well that only the most rigorous search would find it, and its range was more than adequate for the job they wanted to do. Accuracy would have been too much to ask for, but they had intended to concentrate the fire of several hundred weapons on the rostrum, and hope that Blodgett would be killed.
The questioners took Eve through the whole story again, then started on Charlie. He held out for a few minutes, but he talked. He knew no more than Eve.
Then it was Mazurin’s turn.
The first question was: “What is your name?” and it was followed instantly by the touch of warm metal on the back of his hand.
Only a reminder, Mazurin guessed. They thought he was valuable and wanted to be very careful not to injure him seriously; but if he didn’t answer satisfactorily, the iron would get hotter. And many things, Mazurin knew, could be done with iron not hot enough to burn.
He answered the question with his full name. The next was, “Where do you come from ?” He told the truth, not expecting to be believed, but unable to think of any lie that would be more credible.
There was a muttered consultation, then, “Do you maintain that you can tell us about events which are to us in the future, because your knowledge of what is to you history?”
Mazurin said, “Yes, only—”
Blodgett’s lisping voice interrupted him. “That’s enough. General, this information is restricted. Take him into my private office. I will continue the interrogation personally.”
The light clicked off, and Mazurin felt the shackles being loosened.
“Prisoner, have you given any of this information to these other two?” Mazurin hesitated, trying to figure out which was the dangerous answer, yes or no. The President’s voice said, “Never mind, General. I will assume that he has. Bring all three of them into my private office. Here, give me those manacle keys.”
Someone hauled Mazurin off the table on which he had been lying and locked his wrists together. He was able to open his smarting eyes after a moment, but he could see nothing except the after-image of the brilliant interrogation light. Hands turned him, pushed him, caught him when he staggered and kept him moving. He heard the shuffle of other feet. Eve was crying quietly.
A door was opened ahead of them. Mazurin was led forward a few steps and then shoved into a deep cushioned chair. Footsteps receded and the door shut again. Deep silence fell instantly, punctuated by their breathing and the President’s soft footsteps, then the slight creak of a swivel chair.
“Now,” said Blodgett’s voice, apparently from some little distance. “We are entirely private here; this room is soundproof and spyproof. Tell me all about the future of my regime, Mr. Mazurin—and, I warn you, tell me the truth.”
Mazurin's vision was clearing rapidly. Directly ahead of him, twenty feet away across a deep carpet and a huge polished desk, sat Blodgett. He didn’t look anything like the pictures in the histories. He was short and plump, and he looked crafty and nervous and worried. Mazurin glanced to his right. There was a row of chairs like his own, and in two of them, manacled like himself, were Eve and Charlie. Eve was bent over with her head in her hands; Charlie was rigid and stony-faced.
Perhaps the history books had idealized Blodgett’s appearance. It didn’t matter. Mazurin was in the Presence and he was awed.
“In case any of you are thinking of attempting violence against me,” remarked Blodgett, “don’t.” He showed them a heavy little machine-gun, mounted on a wheeled frame, that stood on his desk. “You are too far away, and those extremely comfortable chairs are ingenuously hard to get out of. Also, this room contains a minor arsenal. I could fight off a regiment here, if I had to. Now, Mr. Mazurin, talk. You needn’t be afraid of telling the truth, whether you think I’ll like it or not. You’re a mine of information, and I expect to be able to use you for a long time to come. So tell me the unvarnished truth.”
Mazurin told him.
Blodgett smiled at the end of it. “One thing more, Mr. Mazurin. At what age will I die?”
“I don’t remember exactly, Your Honor. About eighty, as I recall.”
“Good, good,” said Blodgett. “Surprisingly good.” He took a seedless grape from the bowl in front of him and popped it into his mouth. “You are sure, Mr. Mazurin, that you have not colored this tale to please my fancy? No, I can see that you are sincere; you have no reason to lie.”
He ate another grape, smiling, pushed the bowl aside and leaned confidently over the desk.
“If you had prophesied disaster, Mr. Mazurin,” he said, “I should never in the world have believed you. Do you know why?” The pause was rhetorical. “Because I belong to the ages. I know it. I have felt it since I was a young man. I was born to rule the world. Would you believe that I have known that since I was twenty ? And my rule is destined to endure; I knew that.
“Why? Because I started with what every other conqueror tried in vain to achieve—a world dominion. It is all the world or none, Mr. Mazurin. Napoleon knew that. Hitler knew that. Stalin knew that. And that was the inexorable law that humbled each in his turn. They tried to achieve peace through war—fatal, fatal. They had to try, of course. They were born to rule, too, but the wrong time.”
He talked on interminably, his face growing flushed and his eyes glistening. He gestured, he smiled, he frowned. Didactic, he stood up and leaned earnestly over the table. Self-satisfied, he sat back and popped grapes into his mouth. Mystical, he stared at the ceiling.
It was during the latter phase that Mazurin—like the other two, halfstunned by oratory—suddenly came awake. From the muzzle of the squat weapon on Blodgett’s desk, a tiny green bubble bulged. As Mazurin watched, the bubble grew to half an inch dropped to the desk and rolled until the edge of the fruit-bowl stopped it.
Mazurin felt suddenly cold all over. He darted a glance to his right. Eve was looking at the floor and had seen nothing; but Charlie was looking at him with one eyebrow raised, an expression that said plainly, What is it?
Mazurin looked back at the President. Blodgett brought a rolling period to a close, smiled soulfully, sighed, and became stern.
“As for you, sir,” he said, “your destiny is allied with mine. To this favor you must submit. I do not ask, I give, I give you a living god, as you have yourself justly described me, to worship and follow faithfully all of your life. And I give you what is immeasurably more precious than the schoolboys’ history you give me—I give you a place beside me in all the history that’s yet to be written!”
For an instant, that idea captured Mazurin’s imagination. What a fantastic end to his assignment that would be—the Chief Executive, and the ISC Intelligence chief, and everybody, worshipping every holy day at his shrine I