Behind the desk, ports flashed open and rifles roared thunderously in the confined space. Heavy bullets tore through the peculiar substance of the projection and smashed into the plastered wall behind it, but DuQuesne's contemptuous grin did not change. He moved slowly forward, hands outthrust. Brookings screamed once--a scream that died away to a gurgle as fingers of tremendous strength closed about his flabby neck. There had been four riflemen on guard. Two of them threw down their guns and fled in panic, amazed and terrified at the failure of their bullets to take effect. Those guards died in their tracks as they ran. The other two rushed upon DuQuesne with weapons clubbed. But steel barrel and wooden stock alike rebounded harmlessly from that pattern of force, fiercely driven knives penetrated it but left no wound, and the utmost strength of the two brawny men could not even shift the position of the weird being's inhumanly powerful fingers upon the throat of their employer. Therefore they stopped their fruitless attempts at a rescue and stood, dumfounded. "Good work, boys," DuQuesne commended. "You've got nerve--that's why I didn't bump you off. You can keep on guarding this idiot here after I get done teaching him a thing or two. As for you, Brookings," he continued, loosening his grip sufficiently so that his victim could retain consciousness, "I let you try that to show you the real meaning of futility. I told you particularly to remember that this projection has _none_ of the disadvantages of a personal appearance, but apparently you didn't have enough brain power to grasp the thought. Now, are you going to work with me the way I want you to or not?" "Yes, yes--I'll do anything you say," Brookings promised. "All right, then." DuQuesne resumed his former position in front of the desk. "You are wondering why I didn't finish choking you to death, since you know that I am not at all squeamish about such things. I'll tell you. I didn't kill you because I may be able to use you. I am going to make World Steel the real government of the Earth, and its president will therefore be dictator of the world. I do not want the job myself because I will be too busy extending and consolidating my authority, and with other things, to bother about the details of governing the planet. As I have said before, you are probably the best manager alive to-day; but when it comes to formulating policies you're a complete bust. I am giving you the job of world dictator under one condition--that you run it _exactly_ as I tell you to." "Ah, a wonderful opportunity, doctor! I assure you that--"