rld of happiness and
plenty for all. We have been working, on Koshchei, to build such a
world on Poictesme. Now you are smashing that dream. When it is gone,
we will have nothing to live for--except revenge. And we will take
that revenge, make no mistake.

"We have the weapons with which to take it. Remember, this was a
Federation naval base and naval arsenal during the War. Here the
Federation Navy built their super-missiles, the missiles which
devastated Ashmodai, and Belphegor, and Baphomet, and hundreds of
these weapons are here. We have them, ready for launching. Once they
are launched, with the robo-pilots set for targets on Poictesme, you
will have a hundred and sixty hours, at the most, to live.

"We will launch them immediately if there is another attack made upon
Force Command Duplicate HQ, or upon Interplanetary Building in
Storisende, or if Rodney Maxwell is killed, no matter by whom or under
what circumstances.

"We beg you, earnestly and prayerfully, not to force us to do this
dreadful thing. We speak to each one of you, for each one of you holds
the fate of the planet in his own hands."

The image faded from the screen. As it did, Conn was looking from one
to another of the people in the room with him. All were dumbfounded,
most of them frightened.

"They wouldn't do it, would they?" Lorenzo Menardes was asking. "Conn,
you know those people. They wouldn't really?"

"Don't depend on it, Lorenzo," Klem Zareff said. "It's hard for a lot
of people to shoot somebody ten feet away with a pistol. But just
sending off a missile; that's nothing but setting a lot of dials and
then pushing a button."

"I'm not worrying about whether they'd do it or not," Conn said. "What
I'm worrying about is how many people will believe they will."

Apparently a good many people did. Zareff's combat vehicles began
reporting a cessation of fighting. The newscasts, repeating the
ultimatum from Koshchei, told of fewer and fewer disorders in the city
or elsewhere; by midafternoon, the rioting had stopped.

By that time, too, Rodney Maxwell was on-screen. He was, Conn noticed,
wearing his pistols again.

"What happened?" he asked. "They let you out on bail?"

Maxwell shook his head. "Charges dismissed; they didn't have anything
to charge me with in the first place. But they haven't let me out
yet."

"You're wearing your guns."

"Yes, but they still have me penned up here at the Executive Palace;
they're practically kee