Lyman Kerwin sat in his office, topping the great Kerwin Building at Chicago. Glass surrounded him--thick, green-tinted, bullet-proof glass. Above him, beyond the metal-ribbed sky-panes of his eyrie, the star blinked. Lyman Kerwin was studying the notes of the speech he was going to deliver in five minutes. Thoughts went racing through his fevered brain. Thoughts of satisfaction and triumph. Here he was like a god, far up above the rabble. What did it matter if a lot of them hated him, and mistrusted his motives? They were afraid of what it was out there, not so many hundreds of miles to the north-west. He'd see that they remained frightened, as long as it was necessary. They didn't know what he knew--what the poor fool, Professor Vince, had found out--that the enemy were only machines, awesome in their powers, but incapable of organized thought. Someday, when Vince had learned more for him, and when there'd been enough fighting to give him full control of the country, those robots would doubtless provide him with a means of keeping his power in hand, even of extending it. Lyman Kerwin arose from his chair and strode to the paneled cabinet in the corner. He entered the cabinet and snapped on the brilliant lights on either side of him. Facing him was a radio microphone and a pair of lensed, television eyes. He had only to close a switch to make himself visible and audible to the waiting world. Above him was a mirror. Kerwin admired himself in it. He knew he wasn't handsome--in any ordinary way, at least. It would be better, of course, if he were young. But he looked like a master. He looked clever. Yes, he _was_ clever! A genius! And his new, black uniform was slick, becoming the role he must play. There was a badge on the coat lapel. U.S. in black blocked letters, against a red background. And at the center, in a gold star that was like a small, bright halo of glory, his own initials in black--L.K. The badge was his own idea, and the jeweler had wrought skillfully. It was almost time for the speech, now. Kerwin turned about to get his notes. He stopped in chagrin. The papers on his desk were burning merrily! How they had become ignited, he couldn't imagine, since he hadn't been smoking. It was unnerving. The first wave of fright went through his cowardly soul as he bounded forward to brush the burning papers to the floor, and stamp out the flames. He hadn't seen the tiny, two-inch thing, like a miniature plane in shape and function, that had come down through the ventilator above. While his back was turned, it had darted toward the papers. Its atomic rocket blasts, blue and almost invisible, yet terrifically hot, had touched the litter on the desk. Now the minute intruder clung, inactive, by means of anchoring claws, to the wallward side of an urn of flowers atop a bookcase.