d his railroads into twisted steel, had dropped their H-Bombs on
his most vital factories.

He shook his fist at them and shrieked imprecations at the sky.

And when he had ceased shouting, there were voices on the beach.
Conrad's voice in his ear, as it had sounded that day when Conrad had
walked into the palace, white-faced, and forgotten the salute. "There is
a breakthrough at Denver, Number One! Toronto and Monterey are in
danger. And in the other hemispheres--" His voice cracked. "--the damned
Martians and the traitors from Luna are driving over the Argentine.
Others have landed near New Petrograd. It is a rout. All is lost!"

Voices crying, "Number One, _hail_! Number One, _hail_!"

A sea of hysterical voices. "Number One, _hail_! Number One--"

A voice that was louder, higher, more frenetic than any of the others.
His memory of his own voice, calculated but inspired, as he'd heard it
on play-backs of his own speeches.

The voices of children chanting, "To thee, O Number One--" He couldn't
remember the rest of the words, but they had been beautiful words. That
had been at the public school meet in the New Los Angeles. How strange
that he should remember, here and now, the very tone of his voice and
inflection, the shining wonder in their children's eyes. Children only,
but they were willing to kill and die, _for him_, convinced that all
that was needed to cure the ills of the race was a suitable leader to
follow.

"_All is lost!_"

And suddenly the monster jet-craft were swooping downward and starkly he
realized what a clear target he presented, here against the white
moonlit beach. They must see him.

The crescendo of motors as he ran, sobbing now in fear, for the cover of
the jungle. Into the screening shadow of the giant trees, and the
sheltering blackness.

He stumbled and fell, was up and running again. And now his eyes could
see in the dimmer moonlight that filtered through the branches overhead.
Stirrings there, in the branches. Stirrings and voices in the night.
Voices in and of the night. Whispers and shrieks of pain. Yes, he'd
shown them pain, and now their tortured voices ran with him through the
knee-deep, night-wet grass among the trees.

The night was hideous with noise. Red noises, an almost _tangible_ din
that he could nearly _feel_ as well as he could see and hear it. And
after a while his breath came raspingly, and there was a thumping sound
that was the beating of his heart and the