The dark one looked owlishly at Wagner and Ward, twisted a loose mouth open and mumbled: "Portiz reporting for duty." "In _that_ condition?" Silvy Ward snapped. "I'm sober as a king," Portiz answered. "King Henry the Eighth," Wagner said softly. II The fulfillment of his own particular mission was close at hand now, and the destroyer's commander was tensed at the jet keys. How great, he thought, the destiny of the new Leader of the race and through the Leader how great the race's destiny! No more worshipping of the ancient god, Zabir, Father of the Deserts. That had been frustrate, meaningless worship. Dawn after sudden dawn had passed and the race, without ambition, without a goal for its dreams, aye, even without its dreams, had waned into a purely subjective way of life, a fatalistic waiting for the end which every day came closer; now each dawn brought new hopes and life had become objective, meaningful. Zabir, you failed us; the Leader will not. The moment is drawing nearer-- * * * * * A sleek, luxurious spaceyacht blasted from its plotted C-orbit out of Earth and slanted down toward Venus' cloudbank. Within a plushy cabin on its topside an incredibly fat man in white tie and tails squatted at the controls, a self satisfied grin on his bejowled face. "Jimmie," he said to the ruddy faced navigator, "we'll show the Authority that we don't have to have instruments keying our course. We'll show them that we don't have to get a buzz every thirty minutes to tell us we're grooving our trajectory. No, sir, Jimmie, my lad. Now we'll show them Charleston infrareds clear down to Pali-Vanyi port. We'll show them that we don't need any antiquated radio range beam to get us into that foggy port. That weather broadcast my daughter made us listen to a while back said that Pali is completely fogged in, but that isn't going to stop us. The Charleston infrareds will get us down. "Sure, Jimmie, we proved that we can get from Earth to Venus without the aid of a trajectory beam; now we'll prove that we can get all the way down to surface without benefit of the Authority. We'll prove that this Astronautics Authority stuff is just a waste of the taxpayers' money, that the Charleston infrareds will make landing on Venus so simple that even a freshman at Astrotech could get in safely. When Congress convenes again, we'll show them, eh, Jimmie?" "Yes, sir," the navigator yessed. "What's this Authority business anyway? Just a political organization which takes the taxpayer's money for something that isn't necessary at all. Sir, when you get back to Washington, you'll show 'em!" "Good boy, Jimmie," the resplendently clad individualist said with a smile, patting the young fellow's shoulder with a diamond-studded paw.