MISRULE by ROBERT SCOTT Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars for his good fortune every day of his life ... every day, that is, but one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The brick smashed through the window and skittered across the top of Glen Wheatley's desk. He had already removed most of the breakables, but it caught a large plastic ash tray and sent it caroming off his cheekbone. A thin trickle of blood crept down his face. "Good God, aren't they starting a little early this year?" Bert Hillary, who shared Wheatley's office, was obviously not expecting an answer. He had been making it clear for the past hour (they had all got to their desks an hour earlier for this day) that he was an old hand, while this was Glen's first experience of People's Day. Glen knew that Hillary had been in the Civil Service only five or six years. He himself could hardly be accused of being an expert on the every-four-years Day. Still, he waited for the older man to make the first move. Hillary got up and peered cautiously out the shattered window. "Yeah, they're already boiling around the outer wall like yeast in a vat. That guy with the brick must have quite a pitching arm." Sweat stood out on his forehead. He was clearly much more frightened than he pretended to be. Glen noticed this with some satisfaction. At least, he wasn't the only one. "Come on, Wheatley. Us lower-level boys have got to be on the hop. You'd be surprised how fast that mob can get up here." Glen unfolded the map of Government House that had been placed on his desk that morning. He stared grimly at it, dabbing at his cheek with a rather grubby handkerchief meanwhile. The bleeding did not show any signs of stopping. Hillary hurried to the door. "Come on!" He was openly nervous now. "It's no good studying that map for safety-holes now. You should have been doing that ever since we got here this morning." As a matter of fact, Glen had been doing just that, whenever Hillary's flow of words had momentarily run dry. But he had not yet got the location of all the nearby hidden cubbies clearly in his mind. "Government House is such a maze," he said defensively. "And we're damned lucky it is," Hillary said from the doorway. "Anyway, how do you know that map you've got there isn't just what they've been hawking in People's Square all this past week?" He gave a slightly sick leer. "You know those maps are inaccurate. They're just a sop, just to give the mob an extra thrill. Government House plants most of them." He could sound like an old hand, too, Glen thought with a certain smugness.