LITMIR.BIZ

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      The Omnipotent stared into the viewplate, his hands clasped behind his back. They knew—but he didn’t know they knew—of his life-long fascination with the Bonaparte story. They recognized the Napoleonic stance, these last three of his followers, but their faces were blank.

      He said, finally, “Voss, how big did you say this asteroid was?”

      “A diameter, sire, of 1.784 miles.” Voss alone wore civilian dress. Voss the mental wizard, the brain behind the throne.

      “Ah, Voss, how accurate you are. Too bad you were not so accurate in estimating their military potential. Yes, too bad.” There was a sneer in his voice, but he controlled himself. It would not do, at this late date, to antagonize them. For ten years it had been his privilege to ride roughshod over all, even his closest intimates, Klier, Voss, and Mannderman. But you never knew; even Ney, the incomparable Marshal Ney, had turned traitor in the time of stress.

      So he said, “Gentlemen, you must forgive me. Your hearts are as heavy as my own.” It was an unwonted concession.

      Klier extended a hand, palm upward. “Sire—” he said. The others remained silent, but their faces reflected their thoughts. Thoughts of only yesteryear. So short a time ago.

      Later, when the supplies and equipment they had brought him were landed, the three gathered about him for the farewell.

      The Omnipotent had been looking expressionlessly about the asteroid as they worked. It was very small. He muttered softly, “But there was Elba, and history repeats itself.”

      He straightened and faced them squarely. “There is no need to prolong this. You three will proceed to Venus and surrender. Our foe will not extradite. They want only me.”

      The three stood stiffly, listening, saying nothing.

      “You will be humble on Venus—retiring—almost regretful and repentant. You will disappear from public view and interest.”

      He looked from one to the other. “And slowly, gentlemen, the atmosphere will change. My people will forget the sacrifices. They will remember—or think they remember—the glory, the prosperity, the flags and the parades. And within a few years the legends will begin to form. Nostalgia will grow. And concurrently our allied foes will be disintegrating. They will quarrel among themselves for the spoils, over the oil wells of Mars, the uranium of Gandymede.” His voice tightened. “It is then I will rejoin you.”

      They had gone over it before, so it was not new, but their eyes gleamed. “We hear, Omnipotence,” they chanted, full voiced, the chant of the old days. “We hear, and we obey!”

      “Are there any questions?”

      They hesitated, momentarily, before Generalissimo Mannderman rumbled, “None, sire.”

      There were no handshakes, no temporary breaking of the discipline of years. They saluted stiffly, about-faced and headed for the scout ship awkward in their space uniforms.

      In moments the craft had blasted off and The Omnipotent turned and looked about his shrunken Empire again. “It is small,” he said wryly. And then, after a reflective moment, “But I have waited before.” He squared his thin shoulders and entered the asteroid’s sole building.

      On the center table stood a bottle of Martian woji. He grunted. That would be Klier. Klier would remember this bottle of his favorite beverage.

      He picked it up and flicked the top from it

      * * * *

      On the space scout the three stood before the viewplate. A mushroom had blossomed from the asteroid behind them, blossomed and then enveloped it.

      “He opened the bottle,” Voss said.

      Generalissimo Mannderman growled, “I still don’t see why we had to go through with this farce. Why didn’t we blast him down, here in the ship?” Red was creeping up from his stiff military collar. “The insults. The sneering deprecation. The forcing of blame on others…” His thick fingers twisted together in an ugly gesture.

      Voss blinked at him and shook his head. “Impossible. That personality, that almost hypnotic power, that force he exercised.” Slowly, he added, “I believe that even there at the end, if he had ordered me to shoot either of you, I would have obeyed.”

      The Generalissimo looked at him and wet his lips. But he was simmering down. Now he grunted agreement. “You’re right. We couldn’t have killed him as he stood before us.” He emptied his lungs in a sigh of relief. “At least it’s over now. He should have known the System would never stand for his return, no matter how long he waited. We—a triumvirate—will one day return in his name. But he, himself? No. They wouldn’t accept him alive.”

      Klier had remained silent thus far. Now he said thoughtfully, as he observed the last vestiges of the atomic explosion behind them, “I overestimated him. He had softened under adversity.”

      “How do you mean?”

      “His plan shouldn’t have involved anyone knowing of his hiding place. Not even us.” Klier shook his head, as though in disappointment. “He should have attempted to liquidate us.”

      Generalissimo Mannderman took a small needlegun from a side pocket and looked at it reflectively. “You’re right. And I was more or less expecting him to try. You see, I was prepared.” He smiled grimly. The others smiled back. They turned away to go about their duties. And back in the engine room a small device was going tick, tick, tick..

      PACIFIST

      AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

      This is one of the controversial stories that most likely would never have been published a couple of decades ago. In fact, it would never have been written since there is small motive for a writer to turn out material that flies in the face of taboo. The first censoring takes place before you ever sit down to your typewriter—when you know it won’t sell. Perhaps it is an indication of the maturing of science fiction, and of its readers, that there are few, if any, taboos in the category anymore. This first appeared in the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and was later picked up by Judith Merril for the tenth of her series of The Year’s Best SF. It has also been reprinted elsewhere.

      —Mack Reynolds

      * * * *

      It was another time, another space, another continuum.

      Warren Casey called, “Boy! You’re Fredric McGivern, aren’t you?”

      The lad stopped and frowned in puzzlement. “Well, yes, sir.” He was a youngster of about nine. A bit plump, particularly about the face.

      Warren Casey said, “Come along, son. I’ve been sent to pick you up.”

      The boy saw a man in his middle thirties, a certain dynamic quality behind the facial weariness. He wore a uniform with which young McGivern was not familiar, but which looked reassuring.

      “Me, sir?” the boy said. “You’ve been sent to pick me up?”

      “That’s right, son. Get into the car and I’ll tell you all about it.”

      “But my father said…”

      “Your father sent me, son. Senator McGivern. Now, come along or he’ll be angry.”

      “Are you sure?” Still frowning, Fredric McGivern climbed into the helio-car. In seconds it had bounded into the second level and then the first, to speed off to the southwest.

      It was more than an hour before the kidnapping was discovered.

      * * * *

      Warren Casey swooped in, dropped two levels precipitately and brought the helio-car down in so dainty a landing that there was no perceptible touch of air cushion to garage top.

      He fingered a switch with his left hand, even as he brought his right out of his jacket holding a badly burned out pipe. While the garage’s elevator sunk into the recess below,

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