"It has begun, Prefect Lamberti. All over the world our local men are leading their followers in attack. Captain Abram Mazzoli has sent in his report from Tel Aviv. The city is in his hands. Captain Mahomet DiSanto's 'Raiders' have complete control of the Sahara. Captain Arnaldi's forces are firmly entrenched in the old Washington area of America. He will move northward to meet Colonel Magnani's forces from Canada and Commander Campisano. They--" "Campisano's airborne ready to roll?" "Yes, Sir. Arrangements have been made. The drop will be just outside New York." "Alright. Then everything has gone off as scheduled?" "Yes, Sir." Prefect Farouk Lamberti regarded his deskchron thoughtfully. "And Caesar will make his speech in twenty-five hours and thirty-three minutes?" Major del Ponta glanced at his own chron, which was strapped to the third finger of his left hand. "Yes, Sir. At 1400, tomorrow." "Have the twenty-foot 'visor screen activated for public showing. Mount it outside as we'd planned." "It's being taken care of, Sir. The screen is on its way to the Square. There will be a crowd." "Good. We all want to hear noble Caesar." Del Ponta grinned. "Yes, Sir. We all do. Especially tomorrow." "He doesn't know?--or suspect?" "He shouldn't Sir. Our men took over and began covering up at once. You know the atrocious condition of world communications systems. The Empire could fall and Rome might not hear of it for days." "That's what I was counting on ... that and the Disturber. The degeneracy of the field military is terrible. They are allowing themselves to get lazy and fat and careless." "Yes, Sir." "Have my car ready to drive to the Square behind Caesar's tomorrow. See that the covermen in the houses around the Square are doubled and double-checked. But when we go to the show, let's not have too great an exhibition of Imperial power. We don't want this thing to backfire and cut our own throats." "Yes, Sir." Del Ponta's grin widened. "Dismissed." Del Ponta came to attention, saluted and about-faced and left. Prefect Lamberti opened his desk drawer and took out his old service pistol. It was a gamma gun. He had not released any of the deadly, slow-acting rays from its chamber in seven years. But it was ready. He opened another drawer and took out a white cloak, marked across the back with a blue dove and the single word 'Liberacione.' He checked the pistol. * * * * * "Does the Emissary from 1954 get to meet Caesar?" Jay wanted to know. "Later. He's to make a speech tomorrow afternoon. It will be world-televised." "He looks very old and very tired," Jay ventured. He'd seen Caesar on transcriptions of old speeches and on old newsreels. "He's about ... forty, I think. Somewhat weak. Very lenient." "I would've guessed him to be a good deal older." Then "Why weak? Because he's lenient?"