"Think of it, men," he sighed happily in his smooth tenor, slightly muffled by the mask. "Communication with the East--after forty years of the Big Silence. A great moment in history, perhaps the greatest since the last peace-effort." The nine men nodded dutifully. The President looked around at them and chuckled. "'Peace-effort'," he echoed, spitting the words out distinctly as if they were a pair of phonetic specimens. "Do you remember what it used to be called--in the middle of the last century?" A brief silence, then a Stand-in frowned thoughtfully. "Called it 'war', didn't they, John?" "Precisely." The golden helmet nodded crisply. "'War'--and now 'peace-effort'. Our semantics has progressed. Our present 'security-probe' was once called 'lynch'. 'Social-security' once meant a limited insurance plan, not connoting euthanasia and sterilization for the ellie-moes. And that word 'ellie-moe'--once eleemosynary--was once applied to institutions that took _care_ of the handicapped." He waited for the burst of laughter to subside. A Stand-in, still chuckling, spoke up. "It's our institutions that have evolved, John." "True enough," the President agreed. "But as they changed, most of them kept their own names. Like 'the Presidency'. It used to be rabble-chosen, as our ceremonies imply. Then the Qualifications Amendment that limited it to the psychologically fit. And then the Education Amendment prescribed other qualifying rules. And the Genetic Amendment, and the Selection Amendment, and finally the seclusion and depersonalization. Until it gradually got out of the rabble's hands, except symbolically." He paused. "Still, it's good to keep the old names. As long as the names don't change, the rabble is happy, and say, 'We have preserved the Pan-American way of life'." "While the rabble is really impotent," added a Stand-in. "Don't say that!" John Smith XVI snapped irritably, sitting quickly erect on the self-conforming couch. "And if you believe it, you're a fool." His voice went sardonic. "Why don't you try abolishing me and find out?" "Sorry, John. I didn't mean--" * * * * * The President stood up and paced slowly toward the window where he stood gazing between the breeze-stirred drapes at the sun-swept city of Acapulco and at the breakers rolling toward the distant beach. "No, my power is of the rabble," he confessed, "and I am their friend." He turned to look at them and laugh. "Should I build my power on men like you? Or the Secondary Stand-ins? Baa! For all your securities, you are still stooges. Of the rabble. Do you obey me because I control military force? Or because I control rabble? The latter I think. For despite precautions, military forces can be corrupted. Rabble cannot. They rule you through me, and I rule you through them. And I am their servant because I have to be. No tyrant can survive by oppression."