Birthright

some powerful behind-the-throne assistance...

...Although the Democracy survived him by more than twelve centuries, there can be no doubt that Bellows was responsible for...

—Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 8 Josh Bellows sat behind a huge desk, its shining surface dotted here and there with papers and documents, a score of intercom buttons by his right arm. Immaculately tailored and groomed, he presented the ultimate picture of dignity, with his heavy shock of gray-black hair, the firm, hard line of his jaw, and the tiny smile wrinkles at the corners of his clear blue eyes. He looked every inch a leader of men, which was in fact what he was.

“So how's it going?” he asked.

The figure approaching his desk was almost his antithesis in every respect. Clad in wrinkled, crumpled clothes, squinting through lenses so thick that one couldn't see his eyes behind them, what hair he still possessed in total disarray, he seemed as out of place in these majestic surroundings as anyone could be. “The natives are getting restless,” said Melvyn Hill, pulling up a beautifully carved chair of Doradusian wood and unceremoniously putting his feet on the desk. “The natives always look restless when you're staring down at them from the top,” commented Bellows. “When I was one of them I was restless too. That's how I got here.” “That was a little different, Josh. You were restless for power. They're restless for you to exercise that power.”

“I know.” Bellows frowned. “But what the hell do they expect me to do? Declare war?” “No,” said Hill. “Although,” he added thoughtfully, “not one out of five would be adverse to it.” “I won the Governorship of Deluros VIII with sixty-four percent of the vote,” said Bellows. “I think that shows a mandate of some sort for my judgment.” “I'll agree with the first half of it, Josh,” said Hill. “It shows a mandate of some sort.” “You know,” said Bellows, “you are the one member of my staff who continually makes me wonder about the wisdom of not surrounding myself with yes-men and sycophants.” “You're paying me too much to simper and suck my thumb and tell you that everything you do is right,” said Hill, swinging his feet back to the floor with a grunt. “Someone in this damned Administration ought to tell you the truth.”

“Which is?”

“Which is that you are in considerably more danger of impeachment than you realize.” Bellows just stared at him for a minute, his face expressionless. “Nonsense,” he said at last. Hill got to his feet. “Let me know if and when you want the rest of my report.” He turned to leave. “Hold on a minute!” snapped Bellows. “Get back in your chair and let's have this out.'’ Hill returned and