by Don Wilcox
“These statements may mean that Lasher is ready to set off the powder keg. Or they may mean something else. We shall know soon. In the meantime only one thing is certain: the world expects trouble from Lasher and he knows it.”
Thoughtful people cocked an ear to this critical note. Perhaps Lasher was a mystery man. But the masses in all nations believed just one thing: the Troxian dictator would set off the powder keg on Friday.
Troxia became a pandemonium of patriotism. The Troxian ideals! Conquest! War! Everyone seemed to take up the cry. Skeptics hushed, wise men held their tongues, heartsick wives and mothers did their weeping in private.
Tons of letters poured to the palace urging Lasher on. Generals itched for action, promotions. One nod from their leader and they would hurl their green-clad thousands at the world. Clergymen pledged their prayers, school children volunteered to take over the factory work, some women asked the right to bear arms.
Gade Lasher’s burning amber eyes widened with wonderment. He did not read the carloads of mail, but his offices prepared daily charts so he saw at a glance how the nation’s war sentiments rose. He bit his lips.
What had he done to cause this rising tide of war madness? Since his operation—nothing, except to announce an important speech. This spontaneous rally to conflict was the product of forces he had set into motion months in the past. Forces that would sweep him and Troxia into an international debacle.
Strange to say, he sickened at the thought. As if a germ of new conscience sought life within him. As if he valued peace. As if the currents of greed and strife and brutality he had generated in the past now horrified him.
Who was he, to have this monstrous bloodthirsty war machine on his hands? Gade Lasher, the dictator of Troxia. The most feared man in the world. The tyrant who purged on impulse. The ruler who hungered for territory, riches, power. The leader who hypnotized the masses of followers with his own lust for hatred. He was Gade Lasher.
And yet he was no longer that Gade Lasher. Something had transformed him.
He knew what it was—knew it soon after his operation—and he marvelled that such a change could happen.
No one else knew. Even Retterlic did not suspect. But Gade Lasher knew that when the doctor removed that section of skull he not only cared for the present wound. Unwittingly he also relieved an old pressure on the brain—a souvenir from an encounter in the great war. After nineteen years the pressure was gone. Strangely, Lasher was a new man. He was suddenly freed from his appetite for hate.
The world was a different color and he surveyed it in amazement. A few weeks ago it had been a plaything to satiate his paranoid cravings. Now it was a world of bombs waiting for him to touch the fuse. Every instrument of war he had set in motion came like a boomerang at his sanity.
In a wheeled chair he moved through his private chambers and offices. Every official document, every signed order, every blood stained purge list, every glaring map studded with colored pins mocked him. A mad world on his hands!
What could he do? Think! Plan! Act! Use the awful power at his command to undo the evil works he had wrought. Confront the millions who had followed him into this mire. Challenge them to turn with him, about face! Back over the hard, blood drenched trail to a saner world. A world of peace and good will. That was his only ideal now.
Would they follow him?
That question tore at his vitals. Sleepless hours could not answer it. Only one answer came. Go to them, transformed! Face them! Speak to them!
The days required to regain his strength seemed endless to Lasher. But he came back rapidly. This blazing new vision generated vitality within him. He must not bleed his energies with futile remorse. He would need power as never before if he was to repay his terrible debt to civilization.
It was a frightening thing to undertake. No great leader had ever, to his knowledge, survived a drastic change of decisions. To commanders of men, reversals are suicide.
But there was one trick upon which Gade Lasher fastened his hopes—one bright promise through all his black hours of torment—one ability that never failed him: his gift of oratory. The emotional ring of his vibrant voice always carried his listeners. It had never let him down. Now it was his one chance to turn the tide. On Friday he would speak.
Doraine was startled to observe the dictator’s demeanor. Ordinarily he gloated in manifestations of Troxian patriotism. Now he seemed to grow feverish as the rising pressures of his people focused upon him. He was an enigma. What strange fires burned within him? She wondered.
He paced the floors incessantly, a growing torrent of power. Dr. Retterlic could not make him rest. He felt too strong. He’d already rested too much. Stupid waste of time. Too much to do.
Retterlic urged to no avail. As the date of the speech drew near, his restraining influence melted away. It was idle for him to warn against using an emotional voice.
“Keep my emotions down!” the dictator cracked savagely. “I need my emotions as never before. Tomorrow when I speak my voice will shake the very foundations of hell!”
The doctor shook his head and turned to go. “Do you ever rehearse your speeches aloud?” he asked.
“Never.”
The doctor looked grave as he emerged from the dictator’s reception room. Doraine shuddered to read his eyes. He did not stop to talk with her.
She counted the hours until the approaching calamity. Nothing could stop it now. With every glimpse of Lasher, every sound of his voice over the wires or through the door she quailed. To think of the awful instrument he carried in his head. There it hid, like a death trap, waiting to spring.
Suddenly Doraine felt a wild desire to tell him. Betray the doctor. Save Gade Lasher from the unspeakable humiliation that tomorrow was sure to bring—
General Blegoff was before her, beating a fist on her desk, demanding attention.
“I must see Lasher!” It was the demand of Troxia’s greatest general, the man in charge of the armed forces and the secret police.
“I’m sorry, General Blegoff, but our leader positively refuses—”
“I won’t be put off any longer.” He bit his words angrily. “Not one member of the military staff has conferred with him for days. It’s time he told us his plans. How can the armed forces prepare to strike if he keeps us in the dark?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t plan to strike, or he would have told you.”
“Then why doesn’t he—” the angry general broke off as a new bolt struck him. “Yes, perhaps he doesn’t—” His fingers sought the ends of his waxed mustache.
“I’ll tell him you inquired,” said Doraine conclusively.
“By the way,” Blegoff spoke in an oily voice, “How much times does our illustrious doctor spend with Lasher?”
“He makes only his regular calls.”
“Regular calls, eh!” The general’s thin lips drew back in a jealous smirk. “Nice privilege, with everyone else shut out. Him with his moderation talk. Just the chance he wants—”
“General Blegoff, you’ve no reason to—”
“I’ve plenty of reason! It’s my business to be suspicious of everyone. Lasher expects me to arrest and purge as I see fit. As head of the secret police it’s my duty. I’m the most responsible man Lasher’s got!” He beat his fist on the desk like a rivet gun. “And yet I can’t go in to see him. That damned doctor with his poison peace talk goes in every day. All I get is a closed door!”
“But General Blegoff—”
The big man was red with fury. He towered straight in his green uniform, looked to the door.
“I’m going in. Now!”
“But the dictator is seeing on one!” Doraine cried defiantly, her back and her palms against the door.
“He can tell me that to my face!” Blegoff snarled. With a quick forward step he caught the girl by the wrist and flung her to the floor, swung the door open, looked into the burning amber eyes of Gade Lasher.
He stepped back in surprise. Another step as a swift
Lasher hand slapped him across the cheek.
The dictator helped the girl to her feet, then turned his glare back upon his chief of military forces. Blegoff paled; the marks of the slap stood out blood red. He saluted and tried to mumble an explanation.
The black bearded little dictator returned the salute, cut his words short. “When I want to see you, General Blegoff, my confidential secretary will let you know. Good day.”
The husky general marched out, crimson returning to his face.
Doraine murmured her thanks to Gade Lasher. The powerful little figure bowed slightly and returned to seclusion. She gazed after him, trembled with emotion that was not altogether fear, dreaded the morrow that promised to crush him.
Friday noon—a chill went over the civilized world. Nations waited like animals crouched in corners. Many a president and premier felt a sickness in the pit of the stomach. Radio announcers charged the air with ominous words. Telecasts sent forth the vivid picture: hundreds of thousands of Troxians massed at Capitol Park, uniforms gleaming, banners flying, hearts pounding.
Friday noon. The parade of state officials set forth from the palace, a train of green and gold splendor. Military bands played, troops marched, war machines rattled, silk flags flamed in the sun.
Doraine watched from her office window until the cheering crowds marched out of sight. She thought only of Gade Lasher. The doctor was right after all; this war madness must stop. The dictator would not listen to Retterlic’s plea for moderation; then let him go ahead and trap himself with his own violence. The girl held back angry tears that came with these thoughts.
She went back to her desk. Two envelopes caught her eye. The small one was a note from a friend in one of the other offices. The friend had enclosed an order rescued from a wastebasket. Addressed to a corporal of the secret police, it read:
“Escort Retterlic to Capitol Park and stay with him. I have reason to believe he has wielded a malicious influence over our leader. If Lasher’s speech proves this judgment correct, take care of the doctor at once. Signed, Blegoff.” Doraine’s white, quivering hand reached for the other envelope. It was addressed to her in the familiar handwriting of Gade Lasher. It contained a manuscript—his speech; also a note to her:
“Doraine: Please make copies for the press as usual, and release when I have finished delivering.
“You may be surprised at the nonmilitant tone of this speech. Confidentially, an amazing change has come over me Retterlic doesn’t know what wonders his operation worked. I now recognize that my past leadership has been madness. My one burning desire is to restore peace to the world. I know the odds are against me, but I have one potent weapon—my voice. So wish me luck today.
“I tell you these things as a friend. If I fail in my one great motive, you, at least, will understand that I have tried to undo my wrongs. Affectionately, Gade Lasher.”
Everything went cold for Doraine. She buried her face in her chill hands. For the present her wits were paralyzed. She was only aware that the world about her was crashing to bits. No one could catch it now.
Vaguely she heard the radio announcer say that Gade Lasher was about to speak.
CHAPTER III
Madness Reigns in Troxia
The black bearded little ruler of the Troxian Empire advanced to the microphones. The crowd roared—a long, deafening ovation to their hero returned from the shadow of death. Lasher saluted in response to tens of thousands of saluting arms.
“My people of Troxia—” his calm voice carried out over the sea of humans, and again they broke loose in thunderous cheer. At last they silenced, ready for him to open fire. The air grew tense with expectation.
They knew the pattern of his former speeches, which always fed their hungers. He would inflame them from the outset by ranting upon the bitter grievances they suffered from the outside world, then challenge them to demand their rights even if war was the cost, and finally close with a passionate plea that the other nations meet these demands to save the peace of the world. This was the speech the Troxian people and the fear-struck world expected. They listened, breathless.
Lasher’s first words came forth in a surprisingly mild, genial voice. He thanked the people for this immense reception and expressed pleasure at returning to them whole and sound.
He assured them that his health was never better, his will to meet their needs never stronger. A stout applause. The multitude caught up his rising magnetism.
Suddenly his voice gathered volume, his arms slashed the air, he plunged into the fire of his message.
“My people of Troxia, nations of the world, I come to you today to decry the sinister forces that threaten to plunge civilization into an unprecedented cataclysm of blood. I have seen those forces grow from a trickling spring of hatred into a rushing torrent of death and destruction. But it is not too late to dam the flood. People of Troxia, nations of the world, I come to you today in the name of PEACE!”
His voice lifted. The final word shot forth in such a shrill, penetrating tone that the vast multitude trembled.
The dramatic Lasher stopped short, seized his head. A sharp pain vibrated through his skull. The spectators saw, gasped. Perhaps another assassin’s bullet had—
No, it was only a chance gesture, for the leader hurled a fist and cried the key word again.
“PEACE!!”
Again he clutched his head. His face twisted in pain. The sea of spectators murmured. Their massed voices rolled out over the world’s radios in a low, troubled roar.
“PEACE!!!”
That soul shaking voice again—and with it, the face of torture. Both hands to the head. The body swayed, then stiffened with determination.
“PEACE!!!”
Officials on the platform jumped to their feet, started toward their stricken leader. The crowds surged with alarm.
“TROXIA!!!” Gade Lasher cried. “TROX—”
He went down in a white faint, his steel fingers gripping his head. Uniformed men swarmed over him, shouted, struggled to loosen his clothing, called for Dr. Retterlic.
Disorder turned to pandemonium. The raging crowd pressed in all directions. Radio and television riveted the civilized world in a grip of excitement.
An announcer barked, “Dr. Retterlic! Dr. Retterlic! Where are you? Gade Lasher is calling for you! Dr. Retter—”
Another voice switched in.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a tragic thing has happened. No one knows as yet just how or why, but Gade Lasher apparently became desperately ill while in the midst of his speech and fainted away . . .
“He is now being carried to an ambulance. His eyes are open, but he looks to be a very sick man . . . Several doctors are with him; however, he is still calling for his personal physician, Dr. Retterlic, who cannot be located at the moment. He is writhing in pain, clutching his head as if he has a terrific headache. . .
“Some state officials and doctors are getting into the ambulance with him . . . They will drive back to the palace at once.
“I gather, from the rapid fire talk, that our leader must have suffered a relapse from his brain operation of a few weeks ago following an attempted assassination, but we will have more definite information for you as soon as Dr. Retterlic is found. There seems to be some mystery surrounding Retterlic’s sudden absence. . .
“The sirens you hear are the motored police breaking a path for the ambulance, and now they are speeding away from us, back toward the palace . . .”
The storm center quickly transferred from the park to the palace. An hour of nervous, clamorous waiting outside the medical quarters. Then suddenly the doors swung open and the doctors emerged in a body.
News correspondents, officials, radio casters pounced at them, buried them under an avalanche of questions.
Is he alive? What’s wrong? Where is he? What happened? Give us the facts. Is he conscious? What does he say?
Before a single doctor breathed an answer, the phalanx of questioners stopped short, brought up their
arms in salute. The dictator himself strode into their presence. His personal guards accompanied him, nervously alert, dizzy from their master’s unaccountable behavior, powerless to restrain him.
Gade Lasher was neither dizzy nor ill. His dramatic little figure electrified the room. His eyes flashed, his bearded chin thrust forward.
“You want to know how I am,” he snapped. “I’m perfectly well. I haven’t been shot or stabbed or poisoned. I’m sound and I’m sane.”
A cold hush held the room. No one spoke, but every countenance asked: What happened?
“You wonder why I fell during my speech.” His tone moderated. “I can only answer that a violent pain suddenly cut through my skull. I tried to ignore it. It came sharper and I fainted. A few minutes later it passed. There’s nothing left of it now. Probably gone for good. The whole matter is of no consequence.”
The listeners stood petrified with curiosity. Lasher continued:
“Why did it come? That, I can’t answer. Neither can these doctors.” He laughed lightly. “They’ve buzzed around me like a swarm of bees and they can’t find a symptom of anything. Most of them witnessed the operation on my brain and they know it was a perfect job. So that’s out of the question.”
His voice grew sharper. “Unfortunately my personal physician is still missing. The secret police fear he has met with foul play. When they find him, I’ll undergo further examination. In the meantime, have no worries.” The crowd rustled uneasily. Pencils poised over notebooks. Cameras flashed.
“And now you wonder what to tell the public about my unfinished speech.” The message imprisoned in Gade Lasher’s brain was like an explosive whose fuse had been cut. His voice gathered emotion with every word. “Tell them I’ll come back tomorrow and give them a speech they’ll never forget.”
