"We extrapolate; there are machines," the Oligarch said. He regarded Herb narrowly. "I believe we better step up the pace." He was not going to give Herb time to rest, to think, to understand, to correlate the mind staggering mass of information he was receiving. "Let's hurry to the recreation room for calisthenics." In the corridor, Herb glanced around for microphones and saw he was in an unwired stretch. He turned to the starman beside him. Their eyes met. Identical information had been fed simultaneously to both of them. "You heard what I said?" "Yes." "What kind of a place is this, this Earth?" The other strained to think. "It's.... It's.... I don't believe it." "All men are created equal," Herb said. "And they hold these truths to be self evident...." "Nor make any laws abridging...." "Shhhhh!" the third starman whispered. "Microphones up here." They fell silent. * * * * * The Oligarch went to his stateroom and ordered a meal. He had been indoctrinated by the sleep tapes about Earth well over a Brionimanian year previously. The tapes had been brought back by an extensive scouting expedition composed solely of Oligarchs. He found them a naive race. Weakness, of course, was their short coming. As was often the case. He imagined his hand touching the lever that would trigger the explosive. He saw, in imagination, the planet fly asunder. He had destroyed before. Five races had died beneath his hands. And now-- Perhaps, he thought, I am growing old. Why is it I do not want to destroy this race myself? Am I becoming weak? He was angry with himself. Weakness! he thought. I'm acting like a subject, he thought. _I'm an Oligarch._ Oligarch, he thought. Five races, and now the sixth.... Where will it end? he thought. _It will never end._ Slowly the smile came. We are supreme, he thought, the lords and masters, and it will never end. His scalp prickled with destiny. Five races. He saw his hand reach out for the sixth. He shuddered. Weeks ago he had reached his decision. Bleakly he thought: I can't do it. Perspiration crept down his spine. If a planet were not blown up, the whole fabric of his society would collapse. Brionimar must never learn. But Brionimar _would_ learn. Earth was on the verge of space flight. Within a generation they would be listening for radio and television extension-waves in hyperspace that would indicate the existence of another civilization. In two generations they would be in the skies of Brionimar. And then the subjects would see salvation: here (they would reason) is another race capable of preserving the Universe. And there would be no appeasing their blind and mindless wrath until the last Oligarch was dismembered and bloodless. His hand reached out and curled around an imaginary lever. It must be done, he thought. But not by me. Not by me. Not this hand. He looked down at his hands: white and immaculate and always clean. He washed them frequently.