Small Town

The most difficult part had been the microscopic lettering on the main office door of the city hall. He had left it until last, and then painted the words with agonizing care;

Mayor

Vernon R. Haskel

A few last changes. He gave the Edwards a ’39 Plymouth instead of a new Cadillac. He added more trees in the dowmtown district. One more fire department. One less dress shop. He had never liked taxis. On impulse, he removed the taxi stand and put in a flower shop.

Haskel rubbed his hands. Anything more? Or was it complete . . . Perfect ... He studied each part intently. What had he overlooked?

The high school. He removed it and put in two smaller high schools, one at each end of town. Another hospital. That took almost half an hour.

He was getting tired. His hands were less swift. He mopped his forehead shakily. Anything else? He sat down on his stool wearily, to rest and think.

All done. It was complete, Joy welled up in him. A bursting cry of happiness. His work was over.

“Finished!” Verne Haskel shouted.

He got unsteadily to his feet. He closed his eyes, held his arms out, and advanced toward the plywood table. Reaching, grasping, fingers extended, Haskel headed toward it, a look of radiant exaltation on his seamed, middle-aged face.

Upstairs, Tyler and Madge heard the shout. A distant booming that rolled through the house in waves. Madge winced in terror. “What was that?”

Tyler listened intently. He heard Haskel moving below them, in the basement. Abruptly, he stubbed out his cigarette. “I think it’s happened. Sooner than I. expected.”

“It? You mean he’s—”

Tyler got quickly to his feet. “He’s gone, Madge. Into his other world. We’re finally free.”

Madge caught his arm.

SMAUL TOW:W

"Maybe we’re making a mistake. It’s so terrible. Shouldn’t we — try to do something? Bring him out of it — try to pull him back.’’

“Bring him back?” Tyler laughed nervously. “I don’t think we could, now. Even if we wanted to. It’s too late.” He hurried toward the basement door. “Come on.”

“It’s horrible.” Madge shuddered and followed reluctantly. “I wish we had never got started.”

Tyler halted briefly at the door. “Horrible? He’s happier, where he is, now. And you’re happier. The way it was, nobody was happy. This is the best thing.”

He opened the basement door. Madge followed him. They moved cautiously down the stairs, into the dark, silent basement, damp with the faint night mists.

The basement was empty.

Tyler relaxed. He was overcome with dazed relief. “He’s gone. Everything’s okay. It worked out exactly right.”

“But I don’t understand,” Madge repeated hopelessly, as Tyler’s Buick purred along the dark, deserted streets. “Where did he go?”

“You know where he went,” Tyler answered. “Into his substitute world, of course.” He

screeched around a corner on two wheels. “The rest should be fairly simple. A few routine forms. There really isn’t much left, now.”

The night was frigid and bleak. No lights showed, except an occasional lonely streetlamp. Far off, a train whistle sounded mournfully, a dismal echo. Rows of silent houses flickered by on both sides of them.

“Where are we going?” Madge asked. She sat huddled against the door, face pale with shock and terror, shivering under her coat.

“To the police station.”

“Why?”

“To report him, naturally. So they’ll know he’s gone. We’ll have to wait; it’ll be several years before he’ll be declared legally dead.” Tyler reached over and hugged her briefly. “We’ll make out in the meantime, I’m sure.”

“What if — they find him?”

Tyler shook his head angrily. He was still tense, on edge. “Don’t you understand? They’ll never find him — he doesn’t exist. At least, not in our world. He’s in his own world. You saw it. The model. The improved substitute.”

“He’s there?”

“All his life he’s worked on it. Built it up. Made it real.

He brought that world into being — and now he’s in it. That’s what he wanted. That’s why he built it. He didn’t merely dream about an escape world. He actually constructed it — every bit and piece. Now he’s warped himself right out of our woi'ld, into it. Out of our lives.”

Madge finally began to understand. “Then he really did lose himself in his substitute world. You meant that, what you said about him — getting away.”

“It took me awhile to realize it. The mind constructs reality. Frames it. Creates it. We all have a common reality, a common dream. But Haskel turned his back on our common reality and created his own. And he had a unique capacity — far beyond the ordinary. He devoted his whole life, his whole skill to building it. He’s there now.”

Tyler hesitated and frowned. He gripped the wheel tightly and increased speed. The Buick hissed along the dark street, through the silent, unmoving bleakness that was the town.

“There’s only one thing,” he continued presently. “One thing I don’t understand.”

“What is it?”

“The model. It was also

gone. I assumed he’d — shrink, I suppose. Merge with it. But the model’s gone, too.” Tyler shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He peered into the darkness. “We’re almost there. This i.s Elm.”

It was then Madge screamed. “Look!”

To the right of the car wa.s a small, neat building. And a sign. The sign was easily visible in the darkness,

WOODLAND mortuary

Madge was sobbing in horror. The car roared forward, automatically guided by Tyler’s numb hands. Another sign flashed by briefly, as they coasted up before the city hall.

STEUBEN PET SHOP

The city hall was lit by recessed, hidden illumination. A low, simple building, a square of glowing white. Like a marble Greek temple.

Tyler pulled the car to a halt. Then suddenly shrieked and started up again. But not soon enough.

The two shiny-black police cars came silently up around the Buick, one on each side. The four stern cops already had their hands on the door. Stepping out and coming toward him, grim and efficient.

SMIAE.I, TOWN

ST A T EME NT

REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF AUGUST 24, 1912, AS AMENDED BY THE ACTS OF MARCH 3. 1933, AND JULY 2, 1946 (Title 39, United States Code, Section 233) SHOWING THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT. AND CIRCULATION OF AMAZING STORIES, published bi-monthly at Chicago, Illinois, for October 1, 1953.

1. The names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business managers are: Publisher, Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 64 East Lake St., Chicago 1, 111.: Editor, Howard Browne, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17. N. Y. J Managing Editor, Paul Fuirman, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y. : Business Manager, G. E. Carney, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.

2. The owners are: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 64 East Lake St., Chlcacro 1, 111. ; William B. Ziff, 64 East Lake St,, Chicago 1, III. ; B. G. Davis, 64 East Lake St., Chicago 1, 111. : A. Ziff, 64 East Lake St., Chicago 1, III. ; S. Davis, 64 East Lake St.. Chicago 1, III.

3. The known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding 1 percent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are: Modern Woodmen of America, Rock Island, Illinois.

4. Paragraphs 2 and 3 include, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting; also the statements in the two paragraphs show the affiant’s full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner.

G. E, CARNEY, Businefta Mana< 7 ar

Sworn to end subscribed before me this 24th day of September, 1953.

[seal]

HELENE BULLOCK, Notary Public, (My commission expires March 30, 1955.)

Do you live next door to a man from Venus?

The mosf exciting true adventure of them all proves INTERPLANETARY TRAVEL IS FACT. NOT FICTION . . ,

Read this fantastic, but authentic and documented account of an actual meeting with a man from Venus. Read what this visitor from outer space said about other Venusians who have settled on earth . . . about the dangers of atomic warfare . . . see pictures of the Venusian footprints, and the hieroglyphic message he left for our world— a message that top brains in the country are still trying to decipher today in

AUTHENTICATED documents and photographs prove

this book is fact, not fiction — a true account of the most historic meeting of the 20th century— the opening of a new era of interplanetary relations. The first part of this vital book is a historical tracing of all the saucer sightings that have ever taken place . . . from ancient Egypt to the present day— an astonishing chronicle of interplanetary traffic. In the second half is the story of the momentous meeting with a man from outer space, which took place in the open— f» the presence of reliable witnesses. Now, for the first time, this outspoken book breaks through the hush-hush government conspiracy to ignore the facts about flying saucers. Send today for the handsome, illustrated, clothbound book that dares to prove there is life on other planets.

THE BRITISH BOOK CENTRE, RoMn SA 122 East SSth Strevt, New York 22, N. Y. PImm Mnd me my copy of FLYING SAUCERS HAVE LANDED (po»tpaid). I oncleco $3J0.

Ifdmo^

Addrett.-

Zono Sloto.^.M...

Have it your own way

BY RICHARD WILSON ^

Step right up, folks! Anything your heart desires is yours for the asking. Cream on your strawberries? A chauffeur for your Rolls-Royce? Two swimming pools for your country place? That was how things seemed to shape up for our friend Benton. Pie in the sky and a blonde with a 44-inch bust.

B enton was a pretty blase fellow but he didn’t know what to make of the girl witli the forty-four-inch bust.

It made her look top-heavy because she was only about live-feet-six and she had no hips to speak of.

She had been standing in the vestibule when he opened his mailbox on his way home from work. He’d never seen her before. In fact, he’d never

seen anything like her before.

She was smiling at him as he took out his mail and so he smiled back. Why not? Ho approved of her eyes, which were blue, and her hair, which was long and yellow.

“Hello,” he said tentatively. “You must be the new tenant in 4A.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling radiantly. “Do you live here too?” Her blue eyes invited.

“Well, I’m not the mail-

man,” Benton grinned. “I’m in 3B,” he added calculating- ]y. “Just a little bachelor apartment. Would you like to see it?”

Benton expected a polite demur. Instead she said, “Yes, I would.”

There was a Temporarily Out of Order sign on the elevator which had been there for a week and as the girl preceded him up the narrow stairs he admired the long hair, the tight blue sweater, the black skirt, nylon stockings and tiny black shoes.

But he wished she hadn’t accepted the invitation with such alacrity. A man will make an advance, sure, but he’s thrown off balance if it’s taken up immediately. There should be an interval of cat and mouse play, he thought. A decent interval. And then he thought, who is the cat and who the mouse?

He didn’t know what her

game was. It might even be the badger game, with a shakedown in prospect if he misbehaved. Well, he would try not to misbehave. His estimate that the girl measured forty-four inches at the chest was a matter of wonder to him but not necessarily attraction. Sometimes there can be a great deal too much of a good thing.

She walked in when he unlocked the door, still smiling, and sat down in an armchair. Her skirt hiked up to give him a half-view of her perfect knees.

“My name is Benton,” he said, closing the door. “Ed Benton. Excuse the mess. I didn’t have a chance to clean up after breakfast.”

He took the dirty dishes to the sink and pulled the plastic curtain that shut off the kitchenette from the living room.

She had said nothing, so he asked :

“Can I get you a drink?”

She nodded, smiling more widely. Her teeth were very white and even and her lips were rose red. She was a remarkably pretty girl, if out of proportion.

He made two drinks and handed her one.

“Here you are, uh — Miss,” he said. “What is your name?”

“My name?” she said. “What would you like it to be?”

“What would I like it to be?” he echoed. “I don’t know. Marilyn, maybe, or Jane, though they’re not really in your class.” He took a long drink. He felt baffled.

“I will be Marilyn,” she said. She stopped smiling long enough to take a drink, then beamed at him again.

Benton began to feel a little high. He tried to shake it off. He’d only had part of one drink and it usually took him at least three stiff ones to begin to soar. He wondered briefly if she’d slipped something into his glass, but that wasn’t possible. It had never left his hand.

He had been standing next to her chair and now he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. It was an impulse

he had been unable to control.

She kissed him back, not aggressively, leaving her lips soft under his. It was a very satisfactory kiss.

He straightened up, said “Well!” and looked into his glass. There was a bit left. He drained it and made himself a new drink. She still had most of hers.

“Look,” he said, forcing himself to keep his eyes on his glass and stirring vigorously, “what is this? Who are you? It’s nice of you to drop in, and all that, but why?”

“I am Marilyn. I am a — a neighbor. I have come to call. Have I done the wrong thing?”

“No, no,” he said hastily. “Not at all. I just . . .”

Marilyn stood up and he thought she was about to leave. Instead she went to him, took his glass and set it down, put her arms around him, bent her head to one side and closed her eyes.

So he kissed her again. A long, long kiss, interspersed with nuzzlings and little groans.

When they stepped apart he tried to figure out what had been different. Then he had it. There was no taste. Her lipstick had no perfume.

AMAZING STOniBS

no flavor. Nor did her hair. And now he saw' that her lips were as perfect as before — as rose red and unsmeared. He wiped his own lips with his hand, but no color came off.

Of course there were supposedly kissproof lipsticks, but none of them stood up under such a kiss as they’d exchanged. It was as if her lips were permanently, indelibly red.

She took another step backward and he warned :

“Look out for the rug!”

But it was too late. It slipped out from under her and she went down, sliding along the floor. As she slid, her skirt was pushed up to her w'aist.

He looked with interest, then fascination. A scientific fascination. Because her nylon stockings did not end. There were no tops to them. The entire lower half of her body, from her feet to her waist, was nylon, with the stocking seams gradually disappearing into the backs of her thighs. It was not a garment she wore. She was made of a molded nylon plastic.

And, at the juncture of her legs with her body, she was no more anatomically defined than a doll.

Marilyn, the girl with the

forty-four-inch bust and the nylon body, looked into a full-length mirror in her bedroom in 4A.

The image was perfect, she thought, comparing it with a color photograph of a movie star after whom she’d been modeled. Better than perfect.

But Benton, after a promising beginning, hadn’t been friendly at all. The way he’d looked at his watch and frowned and hurried her out of his apartment after she’d slipped on his rug. (It was tricky, this Earth gravity.) She didn’t think he had an appointment at all. He was just trying to get rid of her.

She couldn’t understand it. She’d been prepared to give him whatever he wanted.

She flicked a button in the center of the chest they had so carefully constructed for maximum effect, and reported :

“Scout R23 messaging. Mission unsuccessful. Details follow.”

Joe Hennessy should have remembered. He’d gone bowling with the fellows from the office after work and they’d had a few drinks. He’d been careful to put aside a dime for carfare. He had more money at home, so a dime was enough.

HAVE IT YOVB OWN WAY

But now, at the subway entrance, he realized it wasn’t enough. They’d just raised the fare to fifteen cents and he was a nickel short. He knew that, of course, but he'd forgotten.

Any of the fellows would have been glad to lend him a nickel, or even a dollar, if he’d thought of it in time. But they were scattered now.

Joe Hennessy supposed he could get a nickel from almost any one of the dozens of people flowing past him in the street. It’d be embarrassing, though, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He’d also heard that a cop would be glad to help somebody out in such a fix. A cop would be better than a stranger — it’d be less like panhandling. But still he didn’t like to do it. He’d always paid his own way and he didn’t like to be beholden to anybody.

He was standing near the subway kiosk in indecision when the tall stranger in the pearl-gray hat approached.

“Hello,” the stranger said. He was in his mid-twenties, apparently — Hennessy’s age. “Can I help you, friend?”

“Oh, hello.” Hennessy didn’t like being approached by strangei's. He was alw^ays afraid they would be panhandlers, or worse, instead of

direction-seekers. “Well, maybe you can,” he said. “I need a nickel for the subway.”

He began to tell how he usually had more than enough money, and about the bowling with the fellows from the office, but the stranger stopped him with a smile and a gesture of his hand.

“No need to explain. I understand. I am very glad to be of assistance. Here."

The stranger thrust a hand into his side coat pocket and brought out a sheaf of bills. They were fresh and bright and clung together as if they'd just come from the mint. The stranger took one off the top and offered it to Hennessy.

“Oh, I don’t need a dollar," Hennessy said. “Just a nickel. You see, I — ”

That was when he saw what the bill was. It had a neat “500” in each of the cornei s visible to him and an unfamiliar picture in the middle.

Hennessy felt his mouth drop open. The stranger v as standing patiently, smiling, a five-hundred-dollar bill in one hand and an inch-thick stack of them in the other, vcaiting for Hennessy to accef>t tiie bill.

“Look” Hennessy said, his voice rising to a treble, ‘T don’t know w'hat this is all about. I only want a nickel for

A3IAZIIVU ST8UIKS

the subway. That’s all. Just a liickt'l. I don’t — ”

Suddenly he couldn’t stand it any more. The stranger’s smile and the fortune he held so casually in his hands seemed evil.

Ilennessy fled. Away from the stranger, aw'ay from the subway kiosk, half running, clutching his lone dime in his sweating hand.

The man in the pearl-gray hat sat at the desk in his room and regarded the bills piled in fi'ont of him. He took more bills out of various pockets and stacked them up with the others.

“Why did he run ?” he asked himself. “I was only trying to help him. He wanted money and that is what I offered to him.”

He took a bill in his fingers and examined it, comparing it with another one he took from his vest pocket.

“J thought they were perfect,” he said. “But there must be something wrong with them.

He sighed, scooped together the live hundred million dollars and shoved it into the fireplace. He touched a match to it here and there. It burned very well.

He stood up and touched a button en his chest.

UAVli: IT YOL’B OWIV WAY

“Scout R67 reporting. Mission unsuccessful. Details follow.”

The Politician prided himself on being accessible. He was especially accessible when he was out of office.

So he said he would be very glad to see Mr. Bang.

“Have I got the name right?” he asked his receptionist over the interoffice phone. “Bang?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Mr. Bang. He didn’t give a first name.”

“Well, send him in.”

The Politician got up and leaned across his big oak desk to shake hands.

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Bang. Very glad indeed.”

Mr. Bang sat his thick, prosperous-looking bulk in the visitor’s chair.

“I understand,” he said without preamble, “that you would like to be Governor.”

“Well, now, ha, ha,” the Politician said, thrown off balance. “You might say rather, my dear Mr. Bang, that it is my desire to serve the people of this great State to the best of my poor talents, in whatever capacity they choose to install me.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Bang. “But you should not be unhappy if they were to in-

stall you as Governor. At least, that is my information.”

“Mr. Bang,” the Politician said, dropping his voice and leaning across the desk, “I don’t know who you are, but I can tell this much — you are a man of political acuity. Have a cigar — and a drink, perhaps? — while we discuss this matter.” He picked up the phone. “Miss Grant, I don’t wish to be disturbed for the next half hour.”

Mr. Bang accepted the cigar and the liquor and then, dropping his voice to the conspiratorial level the Politician had adopted, said.

“I can make you Governor.”

“You are aware, I suppose, that the other party is in power, that the present Governor has no intention of stepping down, and that the election is better than two years away?”

"Petty details,” said Mr. Bang, waving them away with the pudgy hand that held the cigar. “If his Excellency the Governor were to die tomorrow, who would succeed him?”

“The Lieutenant Governor, of course.”

“Precisely. And is it not true that the Lieutenant Governor is an aging man who is happy to have the prestige of his subsidiary office but

who would be dismayed by the responsibility and hard work of the Governorship? Would he not step down?”

“Well, yes, I have heard that said.”

"I can guarantee it,” Mr. Bang said. “And does not the State constitution provide that if the Governorship is vacated by death and if the Lieutenant Governor is not available to succeed him, there must be a special election?”

“Ah!” said the Politician. “That is true. And I could win a special election hands down. The other party doesn’t have anybody but a bunch of hacks available at this time.” He smiled to himself. But then he frowned.

“We overlook one item in this little game of supposition, Mr. Bang. The Governor happens to be a young man of forty-three, in the best of health. He is not going to die tomorrow, and probably not for the next quarter century.”

“He will die tomorrow,” said Mr. Bang positively, “if you wish me to arrange it for you.”

“My dear sir!” said the Politician. He seemed genuinely shocked.

“It will look like a heart attack and no suspicion will attach itself to anyone — least of all to you.”

AMAZING STOBIES

The Politician stood up, quivering with outraged dignity. “Get out, sir!” he boomed. “Ijeave my office at once before I call the police! Of all the underhanded tricks! I knew the Governor was a shrewd operator, but I didn’t believe he would stoop to such means to discredit me. Out, sir!”

Mr. Bang stood up in confusion.

“This is no trick,” he said. “I can make you Governor. Tt is your great desire. And from the Governorship it is but a step to the Presidency, as you know.”

The Politician snapped on the interoffice phone. “Miss Grant, I want you to hear this, too. . . . Leave my office immediately, Mr. Bang, or whatever your name is. And tell your friend the Governor that I refused to fall for his outrageous trap. And that if he ever dares even to allude to it, I shall ruin him by spreading the truth from one end of the State to the other !"

Mr. Bang opened his mouth, then closed it again. He put down the cigar, then turned and left, a very puzzled man.

The heavy-set Mr. Bang reasoned later than his failure to interest the Politician in the Governorship must be

HAVE IT Youn ownr way

traced to insufficient information. Years had been spent in gathering facts but somewhere they had overlooked something. These people who on the surface seemed to have no scruples whatever apparently had a strongly-developed moral sense deep inside them which caused them to react entirely unpredictably.

Mr. Bang snapped on his communicator :

“Scout R9 reporting. Mission unsuccessfuL Details follow."

They had met in a fancy cocktail lounge — the sultry girl in the gold lame gown and the distinguished gentleman with the touch of gray at his temples — and now they were in his penthouse apartment drinking twenty-fiveyear-old Scotch.

“I’ve never met a man like you,” the girl said, looking at him invitingly under her long, curving eyelashes. “So distinguished — so witty — so je ne sais quoi"

“You embarrass me, my dear,” he said. “It is I who should pay you the compliments. But compliments are such empty things. Unlike this, for instance.”

And he handed her a string of perfectly-matched pearls.

Then he went to a closet and returned with a coat of exquisite fur.

“Or this,” he said. “Sable — what mink only pretends to

She exclaimed delightedly and hugged the gifts to her. Then she threw them aside and said:

“Though I value them because they are from you, they are only material things. There are more important things.” She stepped close to him, her arms at her sides, her chest high, her head back. “There is you — and me. I cannot resist you. Take me. I am yours.”

His arm went to circle her waist. But then he stopped. A quizzical look crept across his face.

“Something is wrong,” he said. “Haven’t we met before?”

She had begun to lean toward him, but now she hesitated.

“I have that feeling, too.” She smiled and looked at him closely. She touched his chest over the gleaming white starched shirt.

“That’s right,” he said. “We have met — in the maintenance depot. And you’ve found my communication switch. I see yours, too — ” he touched it, midway down the deep v of

her gown “ — cleverly disguised as a fetching little mole. You’re . , .”

"Scout R84,” she laughed. “Reporting another failure. And you?”

“R206,” he said. “Humiliating, isn’t it?”

The Coordinator on duty looked disgustedly at the compilation, especially at the last entry which showed that robot scouts 84 and 206 not only failed in their mission among the III Solians but had ended up trying to give things away to each other.

Project Friendship, it had been called euphemistically. Among themselves the Coordinators referred to it as the Giveaway Program, or Give and Then Take.

But so far — and HI Sol was the fifth planet in as many solar systems where they’d tried out the project — they hadn’t even been able to give.

The Chief would not be pleased. The Chief had devoted a lifetime to the study of beings such as those on the green planet — “human'’ beings whose numbers were such that they could not be conquered from without but had to be subverted from within.

The Chief’s study had

AMAXIxlTG STOillES

shown that the beings had three main drives — sex, money and power. So it had seemed perfectly clear that the way to gain their friendship was to exploit these factors to the fullest. Then, having won their friendship, it would be a simple matter to take over the planet.

But it hadn’t worked. There were other intangibles ticking away in these tall bipeds of III Sol. Suspicion was one and he imagined that honor was another.

It hadn’t worked, the Coordinator knew from having watched five projects fail, because the Chief hadn’t learned from experience. The Coordinators had, but the Chief wouldn’t listen to them. Nobody could tell him anything. He’d worked out his plan a century ago, he’d got the Masters’ approval, and he’d followed it blindly ever since.

The III Solians had a slogan for people like his Chief, the Coordinator remembered from one of the robots’ reports — You can’t teach an old dog new spots. Something like that. The Chief hadn’t even modified the robots where the Coordinators had showed him they vt'ere imperfect.

The Coordinator sighed. He looked again at the panel with its thousand lights — each

UAVK IT YOUR OWJV WAY

ruby glow representing a scout that had failed, and not a single amber one to show even a partial success.

With what he knew now, if given the chance, he might be able to accomplish something where the Chief’s obstinacy had made it impossible. He was sure he could. Why not take the chance? Why not experiment?

The Coordinator stopped sighing and straightened up purposefully.

Then, when the Chief came in to have a look at the panel, the Coordinator decorporeated him with a neat blast from the hip.

He exulted, and recalled another phrase from III Sol.

“The Chief is dead, long live the Chief!’’ he cried as the old Chief vanished into molecules.