"Refuse to make the androids."

He could tell that she was not only speaking honestly- truly-but that there was far more to it than that. He could almost sense the presence of some great barrier in her mind. She was speaking around this-unable to penetrate its mass-fighting a great battle with every word.

"Then Astor will just find someone who won't argue with him. I'm only one person."

"Yes, you are now-but you don't have to be. Talk to some of the others. Try to explain how you feel. Not all of them-us-are like Astor."

He laughed, unable to hide his own skepticism. "Aren't they? Are you so sure? They're Superiors-that's all any of them know-and they want power."

"Don't you?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Can't you find out?"

He shook his head. "That's what I'm waiting to see."

She reached out. He came closer. She touched his hand. "Alec, I'm sorry it has to be this way. I wish it-none of it-had ever happened."

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head. Though her mouth opened, no words came out. Her feelings seemed muted now, as if the barrier whose presence he had sensed earlier had moved inward and smothered everything else. "Stay here," she said. "I want to work and I don't like doing it alone."

"What about him?" Alec pointed at Eathen, who had hardly moved in all that time.

"I want both of you to be here." She turned slowly back to the editing machine. Alec remained as he was, more than willing to honor her desire. The hate he had felt for her was wholly dissipated now. When Sylvia told him that Anna had visited her during his absence and said horrible, dreadful things about them both, he had come here prepared for a final showdown. But Anna had deflated him at once. He had intended to order her to leave; she had told him she was going. After that, was there anything more he could possibly say?

As she worked, Anna radiated an aura of inexplicable, unstated serenity, as though she had chosen to surrender herself up to some great inner urging. Maybe it was better this way-not only for her but for him too. Hadn't they both managed to get almost everything into the open through the surest means available-by talking? Wasn't it easier to relax now, with nothing bottled up inside?

But had he really told her everything? Or very much of anything? He had to admit-at least to himself-that he had not. Nor would he. Why? Perhaps because he was afraid that Anna would manage to penetrate his carefully erected defenses. She would glimpse the truth of his real feelings, and this was not something he cared for anyone to know.

Let the war come, he thought. Hadn't the human race- didn't the present state of the world testify to this-hadn't they proved themselves unworthy to rule? What sort of world was it, governed by a single species and yet divided into two warring factions? The one rich, the other poor. The civilized world and the primitive. Why did it have to be that way? He knew history-was aware of how it had developed-but history could not explain why the situation had to remain unchanged. And could a world divided against itself ever survive for long?

He didn't think so. He thought it would have to fall. Android soldiers or not. A-bombs or otherwise. As surely as the Earth turned, it was coming-the end was coming.

So didn't the choice really lie between chaos and order? The end was predetermined-but the postscript was as yet unwritten. Wasn't that the real mission of the Superiors?

To rescue from barbarism the world that followed the inevitable war?

He could believe in a supreme entity-a being capable of injecting point and purpose into existence. He felt the presence of a plan now-he sensed his own significant role in the great design. The Superiors had been placed upon the Earth at the exact point in human history when they were needed, when their role was crystal clear.

Anna had said he should refuse to do their bidding, that he should convince the others to resist. He had considered such a course of action in the past, but now he knew better: in failing to act, he had in fact done right. When the war was over-that was the time to begin saying no. Then he would step forward and explain the situation and convince the other Superiors to follow his lead. Their vast powers would be put to use for the greater good not only of themselves but of the human race as well. It would work. They would listen to him. His past views would testify to the sincerity of his present position. His views would be accepted. But the war would have to come first.

He wished there were someone he could tell. But not Anna-he couldn't trust her to understand. And he didn't want to tell Sylvia because to tell her that much would necessitate telling her everything and he would never do that. And there was no one else-certainly not Astor nor the Circle. They sought power in order to subjugate the human race, not to help it.

But wouldn't time change that? He had to believe so. Time was the great transformer, the universal force with the ability to change anything.

He suddenly noticed that Anna was looking at him. The editing machine was dark.

"I-" She was trying to fight that barrier again, but it was larger now. "There's something I want you to see." She stood up.

"What?"

"A program."

"Not that again."

She was desperately sincere. "No, it's real this time. I mean it. Eathen-tell him."

"Yes," Eathen agreed. He stood beside Anna, as if he were capable of providing her with firm support.

"All right." Alec shrugged. "I'll come."

The three of them-Anna in the lead-walked off into the garden.

Eleven.

The three of them-Anna, Eathen, Alec-went to the place in the garden where the two wooden benches sat facing each other. Alec occupied one bench and Anna the other. Eathen crouched down at her feet.

Slowly, deliberately, Anna said, "I want you to watch this, Alec. I think it may be very important."

"No tricks?"

"None," she said. "None at all."

"I still say-" Alec began but before he could finish the thought Anna and Eathen and the garden had disappeared. Instead, he was sitting among several thousand strangers in a huge, round, concrete stadium. Above, the sky was an odd shade of gray but otherwise unremarkable. There was a cold wind. The people were white-skinned, often blond, shabbily dressed. Their garments-ties and trousers and thick sweaters-had been out of fashion for decades. The wind caused everyone's hair to lean in one direction. The wind also seemed to sweep away any words. Around him, many lips were moving but he could hear nothing beyond a few, uncertain moans. He stared at the people closest to him, trying to make sense of their presence. Suddenly, out of the corner of an eye, he spied a familiar face:

Inspector Cargill.

He stood up, shouted, waved his hands. Cargill remained seated, his eyes turned toward the sunken center of the stadium. Alec started to move but his feet refused to budge. He remembered that this was a tape; his presence in this crowd was merely an. illusion. But Cargill- that was no illusion. He was really here.

Suddenly, Alec's attention was drawn toward the center of the stadium. A wooden podium rested down there upon a small circle of artificial lawn. It was so far away he could not tell for certain if anyone was actually standing down there. But something had drawn his gaze-a flash of motion. There-he saw it again. The others did too. Abruptly, the crowd fell silent. Their lips ceased to move, the occasional moans stopped. All eyes were focused downward. Even the wind seemed to fade, as if it were waiting too. Then, from below, an amplified voice spoke. Alec groaned aloud.

The voice was Ah Tran's.

It said: "Tonight, my lovers, young and old, I have chosen as my subject not godly things but rather human events. I wish to speak to you of the history of our race, but when I use that word-history-I do not desire you to think of an inexorably rising tide commencing with the establishment of so-called civilization and sweeping onward past such now submerged landmarks as Babylon, Egypt, the Indus Valley, Athens, Rome, the T'ang dynasty, Byzantine, the Golden Horde, the Mayans and Incas and Aztecs, the Spanish and French and British empires, the American Domination, Soviet Russia, and so on up to our present, precarious two-state world.

Nor do I even wish you to think in scientific rather than political terms: from Democritus through Euclid, Archimedes, Ptolemy, Al-Khowarizmi, Galileo, Kepler, Francis Bacon, Newton, Gauss, Clausius, Darwin, Planck, Albert Einstein, Alec Richmond, and so on. Or the arts: poetry, epic, novel, painting, sculpture, music, film-making. I see no need to bore you with the sounding of further names. Or even- my own specialty-prophecy, theology: Moses, Lao-Tze, Buddha, Confucius, Jesus, Mohammed, Mao, and their latter day interpreters, disciples, corrupters. To see history in these terms-in any terms of mere progression-is to ignore the central question: Which is greater? Superior? Was the civilization of twentieth century America greater than that of the Kingdom of Axum? Was Milton a greater poet than Homer? Which is it? Can you say? Greater? Lesser? Or-and I place my name with those who here cry 'Aye.'-different? Let us continue, carrying this question of progression onward into absurdity. Einstein a greater scientist than Archimedes? Mahler a greater composer than Bach? Rossellini a greater film-maker than John Ford? Anna Richmond a greater artist than Francois Auguste Rodin? Myself a greater prophet than the Buddha? I reply to these questions-and they are not intended wholly rhetorically-you may substitute any names you wish-I reply with a laugh."

And he laughed-long, loud, sharp.

Swiftly, he raised a hand and silenced the applause.

"Please-no-wait!" he cried. "Permit me to finish, then express your pleasure. The point I wish to make is simply that the sheer, steep line of history is a myth. It does not exist. The truth is less complex and more complete. It lies-" he raised a hand (in spite of the distance, Alec could clearly see) and drew a circle in the air "-here. A closed line. A circle, repeating itself endlessly. So it is with the universe, with the individual man, and so it must also be with history itself. It is a cycle and not some mad slope of a mountain effortlessly rising infinitely higher until even the gods must laugh at the silliness and awkwardness of the conception.

"A child is born nameless. Soon, he is provided by his makers with a firmer identity and is sent forth to view and experience the world. Yet the child is no greater at twenty years than he was at twenty months. When old age strikes, that is not a matter of declining, either. Remember: I speak to you not of the parabola but rather of the circle.

As we grow old, this is the truth of our experience: the circle is simply closing-as it must. The result-inevitably- is death, the repetition of birth.