But what I have is not a bomb, and I have no enemies. I am an honored citizen of the greatest empire the world has ever known. Hitler is thirteen years dead in his auto accident, and the new chancellor is a different sort of man. He has promised us no war with the Americans. We have peace, and triumph, and these create a different sort of atmosphere than do war and desperation. We have relaxed, now. We have the fruit of our victory--what do we not have, in our empire of a thousand years? Western civilization is safe at last from the hordes of the East. Our future is assured. There is nothing, no one to fight, and these young people walking here have never known a moment's doubt, an instant's question of their place in an endlessly bright tomorrow. I will soon die, and the rest of us who knew the old days will die soon enough. It will all belong to the young people--all this eternal world. It belongs to them already. It is just that some of us old ones have not yet gotten altogether out of the way. He stared out at the strolling crowds. How many years can I possibly have left to me? Three? Two? Four? I could die tomorrow. He sat absolutely still for a moment, listening to the thick old blood slurring through his veins, to the thready flutter of his heart. It hurt his eyes to see. It hurt his throat to breathe. The skin of his hands was like spotted old paper. Fifteen years of work. Fifteen years in his cellar, building what he had built--for what? Was his apparatus going to change anything? Would it detract even one trifle from this empire? Would it alter the life of even one citizen in that golden tomorrow? This world would go on exactly as it was. Nothing would change in the least. So, what had he worked for? For himself? For this outworn husk of one man? Seen in that light, he looked like a very stupid man. Stupid, foolish--monomaniacal. Dear God, he thought with a rush of terrible intensity, am I now going to persuade myself not to use what I have built? For all these years he had worked, worked--without stopping, without thinking. Now, in this first hour of rest, was he suddenly going to spit on it all? * * * * * A stout bulk settled on the bench beside him. "Jochim," the complacent voice said. Professor Kempfer looked up. "Ah, Georg!" he said with an embarrassed laugh, "You startled me." Doctor Professor Georg Tanzler guffawed heartily. "Oh, Jochim, Jochim!" he chuckled, shaking his head. "What a type you are! A thousand times I've found you here at noon, and each time it seems as if it surprises you. What do you think about, here on your bench?" Professor Kempfer let his eyes stray. "Oh, I don't know," he said gently. "I look at the young people." "The girls--" Tanzler's elbow dug roguishly into his side. "The girls, eh, Jochim?" A veil drew over Professor Kempfer's eyes. "No," he whispered, "Not like that. No." "What, then?" "Nothing," Professor Kempfer said dully. "I look at nothing."