It was a strange and bitter Earth over which the Chancellor ruled—a strangeand deformed world. There were times when the Chancellor suspected that hereally was a humanistic old fool, but this seemed to be his destiny and it wasdifficult to be anything else. Human, like all other organic life on Earth, wasdying. Where it spawned, it spawned monsters. What was to be the answer?
It was a lonely thing to rule over a dying world—aworld that had become sick, so terribly sick....
The Chancellor's private washroom,discreetly off the innermostof his official suite of offices, was adream of gleaming black porcelainand solid gold. Each spout, eachfaucet, was a gracefully stylizedmermaid, the combination stallshower-steam room a marvel ofhydraulic comfort and decor withvariable lighting plotted to give theuser every sort of beneficial ray,from ultraviolet to black heat.
But Bliss was used to it. At themoment, as he washed his hands,he was far more concerned withthe reflection of his face in themirror above the dolphin-shapedbowl. With a sort of wry resignation,he accepted the red rims offatigue around his eyes, the batchof white at his left temple that wasspreading toward the top of hisdark, well-groomed head. He notedthat the lines rising from the cornersof his mouth to the curves ofhis nostrils seemed to have deepenednoticeably during the past fewdays.
As he dried his hands in the air-stream,he told himself that he wasletting his imagination run awaywith him—imagination had alwaysbeen his weakness, and a gravefailing for a head of state. Andwhile he drew on his special, featherweightgloves, he reminded himselfthat, if he was aging prematurely,it was nobody's fault but hisown. No other man or woman approachingqualification for the jobwould have taken it—only a sentimental,humanistic fool like himself.
He took a quick sip from thebenzedral fountain, waited for therestorative to do its work. Then,feeling moderately refreshed, hereturned to his office, sank into theplastifoam cushions of the chairbehind his tabletop mountain of adesk and pressed the button thatinformed Myra, his confidentialsecretary, he was ready.
There were five in the delegation—bytheir collars or robes, apriest, a rabbi, a lama, a dark-skinnedWatusi witchman and awhite robed abbess draped inchaste, flowing white. Automatically,he surveyed them, checking. Thepriest's right shoe was twice asbroad as his left, the rabbi's head,beneath the black cap that coveredit, was long and thin as a zucchinisquash. The witchman, defiantlybare and black as ebony from thewaist up, had a tiny duplicate of hisown handsome head sprouting fromthe base of his sternum. The visibledeformities of the lama and abbesswere concealed beneath their flowingrobes. But they were there—theyhad to be there.
Bliss rose as they entered andsaid, waving a gloved hand at thechairs on their side of the desk,"Greetings, sirs and madam—pleasebe seated." And, when theywere comfortable, "Now, to whatdo I owe the honor of this visit?"
He knew, of course—sometimeshe thought he knew more than anyman should be allowed or able toknow—but courtesy and custom demandedthe question. It was thewitchman who answered. Apparentlyhe was spokesman for the group.
He said, speaking beautifulCantabrigian English, "Honorablesir, we have come as representativesof the religions of the world, notto protest but in a spirit of enquiry.Our flocks grow increasingly restive,when they are not leaving usaltogether, our influenc