Capitol

BREAKING THE GAME

Surely the churning of milk bringeth forth butter, and the wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood: so the forcing of wrath bringeth forth strife.

-Proverbs 30:33

Herman Nuber's feet were asleep, and every time he shifted his weight they tingled unbearably.

"My feet are asleep," he complained to the sleeproom attendant.

"Happens all the time," answered the attendant, reassuringly.

"I was under for three years," Herman pointed out. "Was the circulation to my feet cut off all that time?"

"It's the somec, Mr. Nuber," said the attendant. "It makes your feet feel that way. But your circulation was never cut off."

Herman grunted and went back to reading the lists on the wall. His feet tingled a little less, and now he began to shift his weight back and forth. The newsheet was boring. Same list of victories for the Empire, victories that half the time left the enemy in possession of the star system with a few Empire ships able to limp home. The gossip sheets were almost as boring. All the big-name lifeloopers screwing their way to fame and fortune. One looper committed suicide-- a novelty, since people who wanted to take themselves out of circulation usually just signed up for the colonies.

The list he studied was, of course, the game sheet. He skimmed down to the International Games list, and there was the notice.

"Europe 1914d, now in G1979. Biggest news this week is that Herman 'Italy' Nuber is up on Thursday, so all non-Italy players, watch out!"

Very flattering, of course, to be named by the waking lists. But it was to be expected. The International Games had been around for years, dating back to well before somec. But there had never been a player like Herman Nuber.

He left the sleeproom, pausing, almost as an afterthought, to dress. This waking would be for only six months-- last time he had won more money than usual on the sidebets, which were strictly illegal but a very safe, pleasant investment. No one gave long odds against him-- when he placed bets on himself the rate of return was only 17 percent. But that was better than a savings bank or government bonds.

"Herman," said a quiet man, even shorter than Herman Nuber.

"Hi, Grey," Nuber said.

"Good waking?"

"Of course." Grey Glamorgan was a good business manager. He always remembered that even though he was something of a financial genius, with many good connections, he was not in business for himself. Trustworthy. A born underling. Herman liked to surround himself with men who were shorter than himself.

"Well?" asked Grey.

Herman looked unconcerned. "Buy Italy, of course."

And Grey nodded. It was a kind of ritual, but the game laws specified that a place in the game only be purchased when the player was awake-- there must always be a waking player at the computer.

Well, I'm awake, Herman said. And unless things had changed considerably, this was the waking when he'd make the grand play-- to end the game by conquering the world.

The computer wall was already warmed up when he got to his flat-- another thoughtful gesture from Grey. Herman tortured himself as he always did, ignoring the screen, refusing to look at it; pretending the computer wasn't waiting for him as he toured the flat, made sure all the arrangements were correct. Herman wasn't really rich; only mildly well-to-do. He couldn't afford to keep an empty flat while he was under. His belongings were stored, instead, or sold each time. Someday, though, I'll be rich enough, he thought. Someday I'll get to the really high somec levels, like five years under for three months up. And I'll own a flat, not just lease one for a waking.

It was everyone's dream, of course. Everyone's plan. And one out of every seven million people in the Empire made it. Horatio Alger is alive and well forever.

At last, orange juice drunk, bed bounced on, woman for the night paid for and picked out, toilet used, he allowed himself to settle down comfortably in the chair before the computer module. But still he kept the screen dead. He punched out the code for Europe 1914d.

He had been twenty-two when he had first decided to invest some of his money in the expensive hobby of International Games. It had cost him two months' salary, and he had only been able to buy a third-ranked position in Italy in the start of a new game. He had chosen Europe 1914, even though it was the fourth game of that name, because he had specialized in twentieth-century strategies in his small-game playing. And now, with an interplanetarily broadcast game, he'd have a chance to see if he was really as good as he had thought.

I am that good, he reminded himself now, flashing on the holo. The globe appeared before him, and he studied it. First the weather patterns were shown; then the political map.

"How is it?" asked Grey, appearing quietly behind Herman.

"Lovely. No one has tried anything rash. Good caretakers."

Italy showed up as pink on the map. Herman remembered the beginning-- an Italy newly united, weak, unsure whether to join Germany and Austria-Hungary. In the real twentieth century, no one of any force had emerged in Italy until after the 1914 War. No one until that nincompoop Mussolini. But in Europe 1914d, Italy had Herman Nuber, and even though he was a third-ranked player, he had bet quite a bit on himself-- and on Italy.

It was three years before his daytime work earned Herman enough money to go on somec for the first time. In that time he had married, had a daughter, and divorced. No time for marriage. She didn't like it when he spent all night on the game. But it had been worth it, in the long run. A bit painful, some emotional scenes, but at the end of the three years, Herman's bets paid off. Forty to one. He had driven out other, less skillful players, and when he went under somec, he did it as dictator of Italy, and Italy had turned savagely on Austria-Hungry, brilliantly defeated the Prussian army (oh, no, actually German, he reminded himself. Have to keep the periods straight) near Munich, and a peace treaty had been signed. America never joined the war, much to the chagrin of the players who had paid heavily for that choice position, only to see it become useless in the real game.

Italy, then, had been the major power in eastern Europe. But now, Herman saw with a smile, Italy was Europe, the entire continent pink, and most of Asia as well. His last waking had been the consummation of the struggle with Russia. And now Italy stood poised on the Pacific, on the Indian Ocean through Persia, and on the Atlantic, ready to try for everything.

"Looks very good, doesn't it?" Herman asked Grey, who was still silent.

"For the Italy player, it does," said Grey, and Herman turned in surprise.

"You mean you didn't buy it?"

Grey looked a little embarrassed. "Actually," he said, "I was afraid of this."

"Afraid of what?"

"Someone's apparently been speculating in Italy. My staff gave me the report when I came up three weeks ago. Someone's been buying and selling Italy in closed bids ever since you went under last."

"That's illegal!"

"Weep, then. We've done it ourselves, you know. Shall we call in an investigation? All the books open?"

"Why didn't you get a good proxy and keep it?"

"They pulled it off again, Herman. The bidding was last night at midnight. Not precisely prime time. But I placed my bid. Frankly, it was ridiculously high. But no taker. The player who got it bid twice what I did."

"Then you should have bid higher still!"

Grey shook his head. "Couldn't. I only have fifty percent power of attorney, remember?"

Herman gasped in spite of himself. "Fifty percent! Grey, fifty percent? It was more than fifty?"

Grey nodded. "More than fifty liquid, anyway. I couldn't match it. Not from your funds. And I just didn't have enough loose money around to add any of my own."

"Well, who's the player?"

"Believe it or not, Herman, it's an assistant minister of colonization, a real flunkie. It's his first time in the broadcast games. No record at all. And no way he could have the money to buy that place in the game himself."

"Find out who the organization is, Grey, and buy that position."

Grey shook his head. "I don't have enough money. Whoever's buying it is serious, and they've got more money than you."

Herman felt weak and cold. This was not expected. Of course there were always speculators in the games. But Herman always paid well for his position, and because he had contributed most to the slot, when he was awake no one could buy Italy but him, as long as he offered at least fifteen percent over the last purchase price. But now the purchase price had been more than half his wealth.

"It doesn't matter," Herman told Grey. "Borrow. Liquidate. I'll give you ninety percent power of attorney. But buy Italy."

"What if they won't sell?"

Herman leaped to his feet, so that he towered (delicious!) over Grey. "They can't! They can only sell to me. They have to be speculating on stripping me. Well, let 'em. This time Italy takes over the world, Grey. And the bets won't be just seventeen percent. We'll be in for the long odds. Do you understand?"

"They don't have to sell to you, Herman," Grey said. "The player who has it isn't on somec."

"I don't care. I'll outlast them. They have to quit sometime. Pay their price. They have a price."

Grey nodded, unsure. Herman turned away, and heard Grey shuffle softly through the carpet as he left. Herman switched on the screen as his stomach churned. Italy was valuable, but only because of Herman Nuber. Only a genius could have taken that second-rate country and made it a world power. Only Herman Nuber, the greatest International Game player in history, dammit. They're just trying to rob me, Herman concluded. Well, let 'em.

And then, though he knew it would torture him, he flashed the screen through to a close-up of current military operations by the Italian Empire. There was a border skirmish in Korea. India was becoming hostile. The Italian agents were doing well at subverting Japanese rule in Arabia.

Everything's perfect, Herman said softly. In three days I can have this game flying. In three days, if I can once get Italy.

Grey didn't come or call all day. By evening, Herman was a nervous wreck. He had already had to watch as three perfect opportunities for quick, decisive action had been missed by the idiot playing Italy. Of course, that kind of thing happened all the time when Herman was on somec-- but he was asleep, he didn't have to watch. And still Grey didn't come.

The buzzer. Not Grey, since the door opened to his hand. Must be the woman. Herman stroked the release strip and the door opened. She was young and had a beautiful smile. Just what the doctor ordered.

At first, because she was beautiful and cheerful and good at her job, Herman forgot the game, or at least was able to concentrate on something else. But then, even as she tried to arouse him again, the pent-up worry flooded back, and he sat up on the bed.

"What's wrong?"

Herman shook his head.

"Too tired?"

Good a reason as any. No reason to pour out your heart to an edna.

"Yeah. I'm tired."

She sighed, leaned back again on the pillows. "Don't I know it. I get tired, too. They give me shots so I can keep going for hours, but it's so nice to get a breather."

A talker. Damn. "Want something to eat?"

"We aren't supposed to."

"Diet or something?"

"Naw. Sometimes they try to drug us."

"I won't drug you."

"Rules are rules," the woman insisted. The girl, rather.

"You're pretty young."

"Working my way through college. I'm older than I look. But they can rent me juvenile, too, so we all get more money."

Money money money. Pay for sex and you get a treatise on the state of the economy. "Look, kid, why not go now?"

"You paid for all night," she said, surprised.

"Fine. You were wonderful. But I'm tired."

"They don't like giving a refund."

"I don't want a refund."

She looked doubtful, but when he started dressing, so did she. "That's an expensive habit," she said.

"What is?"

"Paying for love and then not using up what you pay for."

"Well, right," Herman said, then added wryly, "we wouldn't want any extra love lying around, would we?"

"Everybody's a comic," she answered, but even at that the habits of the trade stayed. It was sexy, her smile and her tone of voice, and for a moment he wondered if he really wanted her to go. But then he thought of Italy and decided he'd rather be alone.

She kissed him good-bye-- it was company policy-- and then left him alone. He sat up all night, watching Italy. The imbecile was letting things go. He could have had Arabia around three in the morning. But instead, he made a ridiculous peace treaty that actually gave up land in Egypt. Stupid! By morning, Herman had fallen asleep, but he woke with a headache and called Grey.

"Dammit, what's happening?" Herman demanded.

"Herman, please," Grey said. "We're working hard here."

"Yeah, and I'm just sitting around here watching Italy turn to crap."

"Didn't you get an edna tonight?"

"What the hell business is that of yours?" Herman snapped. "Buy Italy, Grey!"

"This Abner Doon, the assistant minister of colonization, he's pretty adamant."

"Offer him the moon."

"It's already owned. But I offered him everything else. He just laughed. He just told you to watch the game and you'd see a real genius at work."

"Genius! The man's a moron! Already he--" and Herman launched into a description of the stupidities of the night before.

"Look, I'm not into International Games," Grey finally said. "You know that, that's why you hired me. OK? So let's just have me do my job and you follow the scoreboard."

"So when are you going to do your job?"

Grey sighed. "Do we have to do this on the phone, with Mother's Little Boys listening in?"

"Let 'em listen."

"All right, I've tried to trace who's controlling this Doon. The man has connections, but they're all legitimate. I can't find a bankroll, all right? So how can I get the people who are paying him to sell out if I can't find who's paying him?"

"Can't he have an accident or something?"

Grey was silent for a moment. "This is the telephone, Mr. Nuber, and it's illegal to suggest criminal activities over the telephone."

"Sorry."

"It's also very stupid. Do you want me to lose my license?"

"They don't listen to every conversation."

"All right, keep praying. But we don't do anything criminal. Now sit and watch the holo or something."

Herman punched off the phone and sat at the computer terminal. Italy had just launched a pointless, half-assed war in Guiana. Guiana! As if anything that happened there mattered. And it was such a naked act of aggression that the alliances were starting to form against Italy. Stupid!

He had to do something to take his mind off the delay. He punched in a private game, offered it for free for any taker, normal specs, and pretty soon he had a good five-man game of Acquitaine going. He won it in seven hours. Pathetic. The great players were all on the broadcast games. What's keeping Grey?

"Nothing's keeping me," Grey insisted when he finally came to Herman's flat that night. "I'm performing heroic tasks for you, Herman."

"Swinging on vines isn't doing a damn bit of good."

Grey smiled, trying to like Herman's sense of humor. "Look, Herman, you're my biggest client. And you're famous. And you're important. I'd have to be an idiot not to be doing my best for you. I've got three agencies out researching everything about this Doon. And all we can find out is that he's nothing like what we first thought."

"Good. What do we think now?"

"He's rich. Richer than you could imagine."

"I can imagine infinite wealth. Give me credit."

"He's got connections all over Capitol. He knows everybody, or at least knows the people who know everybody. Right? And all his money is in trusts and investments in dummy corporations that own dummy banks that own dummy industries that own half this damn planet."

"In other words," Herman said, "he's self-employed."

"Self-employed, but he ain't sellin', you see. He doesn't need the money. He could lose everything you own in pinochle and still like the guy who won it."

Herman grimaced, "Grey, you sure have a way of making me feel poor."

"I'm trying to tell you what you're up against. Because this guy's twenty-seven years old. I mean, he's young!"

But something didn't fit. "I thought you told me he wasn't on somec."

"That's the craziest thing, Herman. He isn't. He's never gone under at all."

"What is he, a religious fanatic?"

"His only religion seems to be wrecking your life, Mr. Nuber, if I may be so bold. He won't sell. And he won't tell why. And as long as he doesn't go on somec, he doesn't have to sell. It's as simple as that."

"What have I ever done to him? Why should he want to do this to me?"

"He said he hoped you wouldn't take it personally."

Herman shook his head, furious and yet unable to find a reason adequate for his fury-- or an adequate way to express it. The man had to be reachable.

"You know what I said over the phone?"

"You'd be the first suspect, if anything happened to him, Herman," Grey warned. "And it wouldn't help a bit. The game would end for the duration of the investigation. Besides, I'm not in that business."

"Everybody's in that business," Herman said. "At least scare him. At least rough him up."

Grey shrugged. "I'll try it." He stood up to go.

"Herman, I suggest you go back into business for a while. Make a little more money, get the feel of it again. Meet some people; try to get the game out of your system. If you don't play Italy this time, you can play it on your next waking."

Herman didn't answer, and Grey let himself out.

At three o'clock in the morning, Herman, exhausted, finally slept.

At about four-thirty, he was wakened by the alarms going off in his flat. He groggily pulled himself out of bed and staggered to the door of his bedroom. Alarms were pro forma-- no one of his class was ever burglarized, at least not while the residents were at home.

His worries about theft, were soon dispelled, however. The three men who came in all carried small, tight leather bags, filled with something hard. How hard they were Herman wasn't eager to find out.

"Who are you?"

They said nothing, just approached him silently, slowly. He realized that he was cut off, both from the front door and the emergency exit. He backed into the bedroom. One of the men reached out a hand, and Herman found himself crushed against the doorjamb.

"Don't hurt me," he said.

The first man, taller than the others, tapped Herman's shoulder with his bludgeon. Now Herman knew how hard it was. The tapping continued, getting harder and harder, but the rhythm was steady. Herman stood frozen, unable to move, as the pain gradually increased. And then, suddenly, the man shifted his weight, swung the bludgeon backhand, and Herman's ribs were smashed. The breath left him in a grunt, and pain like great hands tearing apart his insides swept up and down his body.

The agony was unbearable.

They were just beginning.

"No doctors, no hospital, nothing. No," Herman said, trying to summon a forceful tone of voice from his battered chest.

"Herman," Grey said, "your ribs may be broken."

"They aren't."

"You're not a doctor."

"I have the best medical kit in the city, and it said that nothing was broken. Whoever those bastards were last night, they know what they're doing."

Grey sighed. "I know who those bastards were, Herman."

Herman looked at Grey in surprise, almost rising from the bed, though the pain stopped him as abruptly as if he were strapped down.

"They were the men I hired to rough up Abner Doon."

Herman moaned. "Grey, no, it can't be-- how could he have talked them out of it?"

"They had an ironclad contract. They've worked for me before. I have no idea how Doon subverted them." Grey looked worried. "He has power where I didn't expect it. They've been offered money before-- a lot of money-- but they always kept their contracts. Except when I hired them to teach Doon a lesson."

"I wonder," Herman said, "if he learned anything."

"I wonder," Grey added, more to the point, "if you did."

The days passed, and soon Herman was able to hobble back into the room where the computer screen dominated one wall, where the holo of the world of Europe 1914d rotated slowly. Whatever Doon's motive was, Herman saw countless proofs of the fact that Doon knew nothing about playing International Games. He didn't even learn from his own mistakes. The forcible occupation of Guiana was followed by a pointless attack on Afghanistan, which had already been a client state, driving several other client states to the enemy alliance. But Herman's rage finally faded, and he glumly watched as the position of Italy worsened.

Italy's enemies weren't particularly brilliant. They could have been defeated-- could still be defeated, if only Herman could get to play.

It was when a revolution flared in England that Herman closed his eyes, hoping Grey would drop dead.

"Forget the game. Buy Italy next time. Doon's got to go under somec sometime."

Herman didn't open his eyes, and Grey went away.

Herman began to rage again.

From the beginning of the game, Herman had established a carefully benign dictatorship as the government of the Italian Empire, with local autonomy on, many matters. It was not oppressive. It was guaranteed to eliminate any chance of revolution. Any rebellions were ruthlessly suppressed, while territories that didn't rebel were lavishly rewarded. It had been years since Herman had had to worry about the internal politics of Italy.

But when the English revolution began, Herman began to scan Doon's activities in the internal affairs of the empire. Doon had pointlessly changed things, taxing the populace, emphasizing the difference between the rich and poor, the powerful and the weak. He had also oppressed local nationalities, compelling them to learn Italian, and the computer had brought the inevitable result-- resentment, rebellion, and at last revolution.

What was Doon doing? Surely he could see the result of his actions. Surely he could tell that he was doing everything-- or at least something-- wrong. Surely he would realize he was out of his class in this game, and sell Italy while he still could. Surely--

"Grey," Herman said over the phone, "this Doon. Is he stupid?"

"If he is, it's the best-kept secret on Capitol."

"His game is too stupid to believed. Totally stupid. He's doing everything wrong. Anything that could be done right, he's done the opposite. Does that sound like him to you?"

"Doon's built up a financial empire from nothing to the largest I've ever heard of on Capitol, and done it in only eleven years since his majority," Grey answered. "That doesn't sound like him."

"Which means that either he's not playing the game himself--"

"No, he's playing, that's the law and the computer says he's following it--"

"Or he's deliberately playing to lose."

Grey's shrug was almost audible. "Why would anybody do that?"

"I want to meet him."

"He'll never come."

"On some neutral ground, someplace that neither of us controls."

"Herman, you don't know this man. If you don't control the ground, he does-- or will, by the time meeting takes place. There is no neutral ground."

"I want to meet him, Grey. I want to find out what the hell he's doing with my empire."

And Herman went back to watching as the revolution in England was put down brutally. Brutally, but not thoroughly. The computer showed armed bands still roaming in Wales and the Scottish highlands, and urban guerrillas still alive in London, Manchester, and Liverpool. Doon could see that information, too. But he chose to ignore it. And chose to ignore the revolutionary movement gaining force in Germany, the brigands harassing the farmers in Mesopotamia, the Chinese encroachments in Siberia.

Asinine.

And the fabric of a well-wrought empire began to come apart.

The telephone sent its gentle buzz into the flexible speaker in his pillow, and Herman awoke. Not even opening his eyes, he said into the pillow, "I'm asleep, drop dead."

"This is Grey."

"You're fired, Grey."

"Doon says he'll meet with you."

"Call my secretary for an appointment."

"But he says he'll only meet with you if you can come to the C24b tube station within thirty minutes."

"That isn't even in my sector," Herman complained.

"So he isn't trying to make it easy for you."

Herman groaned and got out of bed, dressed in a suit that looked far from natty as he sagged out of the flat and into the corridors. The tubes were running a half-schedule at that time of morning, and Herman stumbled into one and followed the route that let him to station C24b. It was even less crowded than Herman's own area, and there on the platform waited an unprepossessing young man, only a little taller than Herman himself. He was alone.

"Doon?" Herman asked.

"Grandfather," the young man answered. Herman looked at him blankly. Grandfather?

"Not possible."

"Abner Doon, colt, out of filly Sylvaii, daughter of Herman Nuber and Birniss Humbol. An admirable pedigree, don't you think?"

Herman was appalled. After all these solitary years, to discover that his young tormentor was a relative-- "Dammit, boy, I have no family. What is this, vengeance for a divorce a hundred years ago? I paid your grandmother well. If you're telling the truth."

But Doon only smiled. "Actually, Grandfather, I don't give a damn about your liaison and lack of it with my grandmother. I don't like her anyway, and we haven't spoken in years. She says I'm too much like you. And so now when she comes out of somec, she doesn't even look me up. I visit her just to be annoying."

"A trait you seem to specialize in."

"You find a long-lost grandchild, and already you're trying to cause division in the family. What an ugly way of dealing with family crises."

And Doon turned on his heel. Since they hadn't yet discussed the game, Herman had no choice but to follow. "Listen, boy," Herman said as he trotted doggedly behind the younger man's brisk walk, "I don't know what your purpose is with my game, but you certainly don't need any money. And you're certainly not going to win any bets, not the way you're playing."

Doon smiled over his shoulder and went on walking down the corridors. "It rather depends, doesn't it, on whit I'm betting on."

"You mean you're betting that you'll lose? The way you're playing, you'd never get any takers."

"No, Grandfather. As a matter of fact, I'm holding bets made months ago. Bets that Italy would be destroyed and utterly gone from Europe 1914d within two months of your waking."

"Uttedy destroyed!" Herman laughed. "Not a chance of that, boy. I built too well, even for a games moron like you."

Doon touched a door and it slid open.

"Come in, Grandfather."

"Not a chance, Doon. What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"A rather small one, actually," Doon said, and Herman followed the younger man's gaze to the two men standing behind him.

"Whore did they come from?" Herman asked stupidly.

"They're my friends. They're coming to this party with us. I like to keep myself surrounded by friends."

Herman followed Doon inside.

The setting was austere, functional, almost middle-class in its plainness. But the walls were lined with real wood-- Herman recognized it at a glance-- and the computer that overwhelmed the small front room was the most expensive, most self-contained model available.

"Grandfather," Doon said, "contrary to what you think, I brought you here tonight because, for all that you've been a remarkably bad parent and grandparent, I feel some residual desire for you not to hate me."

"You lose," Herman replied. The two thugs grinned moronically at him.

"You haven't had much connection with the real world lately," Doon commented.

"More than I wanted."

"Instead you've devoted your life and your fortune building up an empire on a shadow world that exists only in the computer."

"My Lord, boy, you sound like a clergyman."

"Mother wanted me to be a minister," Doon said. "She was always pathetically hunting for her father-- you, if you recall-- but this time a father who'd not desert her. Sadly, sadly, Grandfather, she finally found that surrogate parent in God."

"At least I thought I'd bequeath a child of mine some good sense," Herman said in disgust.

"You've bequeathed more than you know."

The world of Europe 1914d appeared on the holo. Italy was pinkly dominant.

"It's beautiful," Doon said, and Herman was surprised by the honest admiration in his voice.

"Nice of you to notice," Herman replied.

"No one but you could have built it."

"I know."

"How long do you think it would take to destroy it?"

Herman laughed. "Don't you know your history, boy? Rome was falling from the end of the republic on, and it took fifteen hundred years for the last remnant to fall. England's power was fading from the' eventeenth century on, but nobody noticed because it kept gathering real estate. It stayed independent for another four hundred years. Empires don't fall easily, boy."

"What would you say about an empire failing in a week?"

"That it wasn't a well-built empire, then."

"What about yours, Grandfather?"

"Stop calling me that."

"How well have you built?"

Herman glared at Doon. "No one has ever built better."

"Napoleon?"

"His empire didn't outlive him."

"And yours will outlive you?"

"Even a total incompetent could keep it intact."

Doon laughed. "But we're not talking about a total incompetent, Grandfather. We're talking about your own grandson, who has everything you ever had, only more of it."

Herman stood up. "This meeting is pointless. I have no family. I lost custody of my daughter because I didn't want her. I don't know, and I certainly don't want her offspring. I'll be under somec in a few months, and when I wake up I'll take Italy, whatever damage you've done to it, and build it back."

Doon laughed. "But Herman. Once a country has ceased to exist, it can't be brought back into the game. When I'm through with Italy, it'll be a computer standard country, and you won't be able to buy it."

"Look, boy," Herman said coldly, "do you plan to keep me here against my will?"

"Youre the one who asked for a meeting."

"I regret it."

"Seven days, Grandfather, and Italy will be gone."

"Inconceivable."

"I actually plan to do it in four days, but something might go wrong."

"Of all criminals, the worst are those who see beauty only as an opportunity for destruction."

"Good-bye, Grandfather."

But at the door, Herman turned to Doon and pleaded, "Why are you doing this? Why don't you stop?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Can't you wait until next time? Can't you let me have Italy for this waking?"

Doon only smiled. "Grandfather, I know how you play. If you had Italy this waking, you'd take over the world, wouldn't you? And then the game would end."

"Of course."

"That's why I have to destroy Italy now-- while I still can."

"Why Italy? Why not go ruin somebody else's empire?"

"Because, Grandfather, it's no challenge to destroy the weak."

Herman left, and the door slid shut behind him. He went back to the tube, and it took him to his home station. At home, the holo of the globe was still dominated by pink. Herman stopped and looked at it, and even as bg watched, a large section of Siberia changed colors. He no longer raged at Doon's incompetence. The boy was obviously compensating for a miserably religious childhood, which he blamed on his grandfather. But no amount of talent the boy might have could possibly dismember Italy. The computer was too rigidly realistic. Once the computer-simulated populace of Italy realized what Doon's character, the dictator, was doing, the unchanging laws of interaction between government and governed would oust him. He would be compelled to sell, and Herman could buy. And rebuild all the damage.

England rebelled again, and Herman went to bed.

But he woke gasping, and remembered that in his dream he had been crying. Why? But even as he tried to remember, the dream slipped from his mind's grasp, and he could only remember that it had something to do with his former wife.

He went to the computer and cleared it of the game. Birniss Humbol. The computer summoned her picture to the screen, and Herman looked as she went through a sequence of facial expressions. She was beautiful then, and the computer awakened memories.

A courtship that had been oddly chaste-- perhaps religion was already in Birniss's blood, only to surface fully in her daughter. Their wedding night had been their first intercourse, and Herman laughed at how it had been-- Birniss, worldly and wise, so strangely timid as she confessed her unpreparedness to her husband. And Herman, tender and careful, leading her through the mysteries. And at the end, her asking him, "Is that all?"

"It'll be better later," he had said, more than a little hurt.

"It wasn't half as bad as I expected," she answered. "Do it again."

They had done everything together. Everything, that is, but the game. And it was a crucial time for Italy. He began going to bed later and later, talking to her less, and even then talking of nothing but Italy and the affairs of his small but beautiful world.

There was no other man when she divorced him, and to satisfy a whim of curiosity he looked up her name in the vital statistics bank. He wasn't surprised when the computer told him that she had never remarried, though she hadn't kept his name.

Had there been something remarkable about their marriage, so that she'd never marry again? Or was it simply that she had only trusted one man, and then found that marriage wasn't what she'd wanted-- or sex, either, by extension. Her hurt had poisoned their daughter; her hurt had poisoned Doon. Poor boy, Herman thought. The sins of the fathers. But the divorce, however regrettable, had been inevitable. To save the marriage, Herman would have had to sacrifice the game. And never in history, real or feigned, had there been such a thing of beauty as his Italy. Dissertations had been written on it, and he knew that he was acclaimed by the students of alternate histories as the greatest genius ever to have played. "A match for Napolean, Julius, or Augustus." He remembered that one, and likewise the statement of one professor who had pleaded for an interview until Herman's vanity no longer allowed him to resist: "Herman Nuber, not even America, not even England, not even Byzantium compared to your Italy for stability, for grace, for power." High praise, coming from a man who had specialized in real European history, with the chauvinism of the historian for the era he studied.

Doon. Abner Doon, And when the lad had proven himself no match for his grandfather's gifts as a builder, what would happen to him?

Herman found himself, as he dozed at the computer, daydreaming of a reconciliation of some kind. Abner Doon embracing him and saying, Grandfather, you built too well. You built for all time. Forgive my presumption.

Even Herman's dreams, he realized as he awoke, even my dreams require the surrender of everyone around me. Birniss's image was still on the screen. He erased her, and began to scan Italy.

The entire empire was being swept by revolution from one end to the other. Even in the homeland on the Italic Peninsula. Herman stared in disbelief. It had only been overnight, and suddenly all the revolutions had come at once.

It was unprecedented in history. How could the computer have been so mad? It had to be a malfunction. Many empires had faced rebellion, but never, never so general-- never universal revolution. Even the army was in mutiny. And the enemies of Italy were madly plunging over the borders to take advantage of the situation.

"Grey!" Herman shouted over the phone. "Grey, do you know what hes doing?"

"How can I help it?" Grey asked nastily. "All the gamesplayers on my staff have been chattering about it all morning."

"How did he do it?"

"Look, Herman, you're the games expert. I don't even play, all right? And I've got work to do. Did you meet with him?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He's my grandson."

"I wondered if he'd tell you."

"You knew?"

"Of course," Grey answered. "And I had his psychologicat profile. Do you think I would have let you meet him alone if I hadn't been sure he had no intention of harming you?"

"Not harming me? What about those walking turds he had beat me to a pudding last week?"

"Retaliation, Herman, that's all. He's a good retaliator."

"You're fired!" Herman shouted, slamming the button on the console that disconnected the conversation. And he watched grimly, hour after hour, as the loyal fragments of Italy's army attempted to cope with the mutiny and revolution and invasion all at once. It was impossible, and by late afternoon, the only pink areas on the globe were in Gaul, Iberia, Italy itself, and a small pocket in Poland.

The computer reported that Doon's persona, the dictator of Italy, had vanished, and would-be assassins couldn't put him to death. And as Rome itself fell to an invading army from Nigeria and America, he knew that now defeat and destruction were inevitable. Impossible yesterday, inevitable today.

Still he fought his despair, and sent an urgent message to Grey, forgetting that he had fired him that morning. Grey responded as deferently as ever.

"Offer to buy Italy," Herman said.

"Now? The thing's in ruins."

"I might pull it out. I still might. Surely he's proved his point by now."

"I'll try," Grey said.

But by late evening, there was no pink on the board. The other players and the computer's ironclad adherence to the laws of public behavior had left the game no chance of Italy's rebirth. The information appeared on the status lists. "Iran: newly independent; Italy: discontinued; Japan: at war with China and India over the domination of Siberia..." No special notice. Nothing. Italy: discontinued.

Grimly Herman played back all the information he could find in the computer. How had Doon done it? It was impossible. But for hours as he pored over the information the computer gave him, Herman began to see the endless machinations that Doon had set in motion, always postponing revolution here, advancing it there, antagonizing here, soothing there, so that when the full revolution erupted it was universal; so that when Italy's defeat was obvious, there was no lingering desire to have some fragment of it remain. He had gauged the hatred better than the computer itself; he had destroyed more thoroughly than any man had ever built. And in his bitterness at the wrecking of his creation, Herman still had to recognize a kind of majesty in what Doon had done. But it was a satanic majesty, a regal power to destroy.

"A mighty hunter before the Lord," said Doon, and Herman whirled to see Doon standing in his living room.

"How did you get in here," Herman stammered.

"I have connections," Doon said, smiling. "I knew you'd never let me in, and I had to see you."

"You've seen me," Herman said, and turned away.

"It went faster than I thought it would," Doon said.

"Glad to know something could surprise you."

Doon might have said more, but at that point Herman's self-control, overstrained that day, broke down. He didn't weep, but he did grip the console of the computer far too tightly, as if afraid that when he let go the centrifugal force of Capitol's rotation would throw him into space.

Grey and two doctors came at Doon's anonymous call, and the doctors pried Herman's fingers away hvm the console and led him to bed. A sedative and some instructions to Grey, and they left again. It was only mild-- too much in one day, that's all. He'd feel much better when he woke up.

Herman felt much better when he woke up. He had slept dreamlessly-- the sedatives did their work well. The false sunlight streamed through his expensive artificial window, which seemed to open on the countryside outside Florence, though of course in reality nothing but another flat much like his own was on the other side of that wall. Herman looked at the sunlight and wondered if the illusion was good. He had been born on Capitol-- he had no idea whether sunlight really streamed into windows that way.

Under the dazzling light, Abner Doon sat on a chair, asleep. Seeing him brought a flood of feelings back to Herman-- but he retained his control, and the vestiges of the drugs made him oddly calm about things, after all. He watched his grandson's sleeping face and wondered how so much hatred could be hidden there.

Doon awoke. He looked immediately at his grandfather, saw that he was awake, and smiled gently. But he said nothing. Just stood and carried his chair closer to Herman's bed. Herman watched him silently, and wondered what was going to happen. But the drug kept saying, "I don't care what happens," and Herman didn't care what was going to happen.

"Is it all discharged?" he asked softly, and Doon only smiled more broadly.

"You're so young," Doon said. And then, so quickly that Herman had no time (and the drug gave him no inclination) to resist, the younger man reached out and touched Herman's forehead lightly. The hand was dry, and it traced the faint lines that had begun to cleave the skin. "You're so young."

Am I? Herman thought, as he rarely did, of how old he was in real time. He had gone on somec-- what, seventy years ago? At his average rate of one out of four, that meant it had been only seventeen years of subjective time since he had first been able to use the sleeping drug, the gift of eternal life. Seventeen years. And all of them devoted to building Italy. And yet.

And yet those seventeen years hadn't even been half the time he had lived. Subjectively, he wasn't forty yet. Subjectively, he could start again. Subjectively, there was more than enough time for him to make an empire that even Doon couldn't break down.

"But I can't, can I?" Herman asked, unaware that his question arose from private thoughts.

Yet Doon understood. "I've learned everything you know about building, Grandfather," he said. "But you'll never understand what I've learned about tearing down."

Herman smiled wanly, the only kind of smile available to him under the drug. "It's a field of study I largely ignored."

"And yet it's the only one with eternal results. Build well, and eventually your beautiful creation, Grandfather, with or without my help, eventually it will fall. But destroy thoroughly, destroy effectively, and what was wrecked will never be rebuilt. Never."

And the drug took Herman's fury and hatred and turned it into regret and gentle grief. Tears spun from his eyelashes as he blinked.

"Italy was beautiful," he said.

Doon only nodded.

And as the tears now began to flow smoothly onto the pillow, Herman whimpered, "Why'd you do it, boy?"

"It was practice."

"Practice for what?"

"Saving the human race."

The drug permitted Herman to smile a little at that. "Quite a warm-up, boy. What can you dystroy now, after Italy?"

Doon said nothing. He just walked to the window and looked through it.

"Do you know what's going on outside your window?"

Herman mumbled, "No."

"Peasants are pressing olives. And bringing food to Florence. A lovely scene, Grandfather. Very pastoral."

"Does that mean it's spring? Or autumn?"

"Who remembers?" Doon asked. "Who cares? The seasons are what we say they are on every world in the Empire, and on Capitol we care nothing for seasons at all. We've mastered everything, haven't we? The Empire is powerful, and even the attempts of the enemy to attack us are only the annoyance of mosquitoes."

The word mosquito meant nothing to Herman, but he was too weary to ask.

"Grandfather, the Empire is stable. Not as perfect as Italy, perhaps, but strong and stable and with somec keeping the elite alive for centuries, what force could possibly topple the Empire?"

Herman struggled to think. He had never thought of the Empire as being a nation, like those in the International Games. The Empire was-- was reality. Nothing would ever hurt it. "Nothing can hurt the Empire," Herman said.

"I can," Doon said.

"You're insane," Herman answered.

"Probably," Doon said, and then the conversation lagged and the drug decided that Herman would sleep. He slept.

"I want to see Doon," Herman told Grey.

"I would have thought," Grey answered mildly, "that you'd seen enough of him last month."

"I want to see him."

"Herman, this is becoming an obsession. The doctors say I can't let you do anything to upset yourself. If you'll just behave reasonably for a few months, we can get you back on somec and I can give you back fifty percent of your power of attorney."

"I don't like being considered insane."

"It's just a technicality. It's keeping you alive, you know."

"Grey, all I've done is try to warn--"

"Don't start that. The doctors are monitoring this call. Herman, this Empire isn't interested in your pathetic theories about Doon--"

"He said it himself!"

"Abner Doon destroyed Italy. It was ugly, it was cruel, it was pointless, but it was legal. Now to fantasize that he's also out to destroy the Empire--"

"It's not a fantasy!" Herman roared.

"Herman, the doctors said I have to call it a fantasy to help you see reality."

"He's going to wreck the Empire! He can do it!"

"That kind of talk is treason, Herman. Stop talking like that and we can get you declared legally sane again. But if you say things like that when you're responsible for yourself, you can be executed very quickly by Mother's Little Boys."

"Grey, whether I'm sane or not, I want to talk to Doon!"

"Herman, drop it. Forget it. It was just a game. He was your grandson. He was hurt, he tried to hurt you back. But don't let it damage you like this."

"Grey, tell the doctors I want to talk to Doon!"

Grey sighed. "I'll tell them on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That if they give you one meeting with Doon, you'll never ask for another."

"I promise. I only want one meeting."

"Then I'll do my best."

Grey switched off the phone, and Herman disconnected his end. The telephone now would only connect him to Grey's office. He could make no other calls. He couldn't open the door. And his computer would no longer let him watch the broadcast games.

It was only an hour before Grey was back on the phone.

"Well?" Herman asked eagerly.

"They said yes."

"Connect me then!" Herman demanded.

"I already tried. Impossible."

"How can it be impossible? He'll talk to me! I know he will!"

"He's under somec, Herman. He went under only a few days after he wrecked-- after the game. He won't be awake for three years."

And with a whimper Herman disconnected the phone again.

It took five years of therapy-- five years without somec-- for Herman at last to admit that his fear of Doon was abnormal, and that actually Doon had never hinted that he meant to wreck the Empire. Of course Herman had said that from the beginning, as soon as he realized that was what the doctors wanted to hear. But the machines enforced truth, and it was not until the machines told the doctors that Herman was not lying when he said those things that the doctors at last pronounced him cured and Grey's staff (Grey was under somec at the time) released fifty percent of Herman's power of attorney to him. Herman promptly signed it all back and went under somec, trying to snatch back the years of somec sleep that had been taken from him while the doctors cured him of his ridiculous delusions.

For nearly a century, Doon's and Herman's wakings failed to coincide. At first Herman hadn't tried to look Doon up-- the cure had taken from him, for a while at least, any curiosity about his grandson. Then he had learned to look back on the strange episode that had so changed his life without fear or anger; and he had pored over the records of the famous game. Many books had been written on it-- The Rise and Fall of Nuber's Italy was over two thousand views long. And as he philosophically studied the structure he had built and the way it had fallen, the desire grew in him to meet his opponent and grandson. Not again, because the doctors had convinced Herman utterly of the truth that he hadn't seen Doon at all after the battle.

But when Herman tried to look up Abner Doon's waking schedule at the sleeproom, he was informed that Doon's wakings were a matter of state security. That meant only one thing-- Doon was sleeping longer than the absolute maximum of ten years and waking less than the absolute minimum of two months. It meant he was in a power group inaccessible even to most government officials. And it increased Herman's desire to see him.

It was not until Herman had reached the subjective age of seventy that he finally succeeded. Centuries of Empire history had passed, and Herman followed them carefully. He read everything he could get into his computer on history-- Empire and otherwise. He wasn't sure what he was looking for; but he was sure that he had never found it. And then one day his inquiry at the sleeproom brought him the information that Abner Doon was awake. They wouldn't tell him how long Doon had been awake or how soon he would sleep again, but it was enough. Herman sent the message, and to his surprise, a message returned that Doon would see him. That Doon would even come to him.

Herman fretted for hours, wondering now what it was he had wanted to see Doon for. There was no filial feeling, Herman decided. Family was nothing to him. It was the wish of a great player to meet the man who had defeated him, that's all. Napolean's wish, just before his death, to talk to Wellington. Hitler's mad craving to speak to Roosevelt. Julius's dying passion to converse, for just a moment as the blood poured from him, with Brutus.

What's in the mind of the man who destroyed you? That was the question that had nagged at Herman's mind for years, and he wondered, now, if he would find the answer. And yet this would be his only chance. Herman's five years of therapy had cost him dearly, and he could see-- as so few others could-- his mortality waiting around the corner. Somec only postponed, it did not end.

"Grandfather," said a gentle voice, and Herman woke abruptly. When had he fallen asleep? No matter. Before him stood the short, now rather portly man that he recognized as his grandson. It was shocking to see how young Doon was, though. Hardly older than when they had locked horns so many, many years ago.

"My legendary opponent," said Herman, extending his hand.

Doon took the offered fingers, but instead of gripping them, he spread the old man's hand on his. "Even somec takes its toll, doesn't it?" he asked, and the sadness in his eyes told Herman that, after all, someone else understood the death that somec so cleverly carried within its life-preserving promise.

"Why did you want to see me?" Doon asked.

And heavy, slow, inexplicable tears rolled out of Herman's aging eyes. "I don't know," he said. "I just wanted to know how you were doing."

"I'm doing well," Doon said. "My department has colonized dozens of worlds in the last few centuries. The enemy's on the run-- we're going to outpopulate him if he doesn't do the same. The Empire's growing."

"I'm so glad. Glad the Empire's growing. Building on empire's such a lovely thing." Pointlessly he added, "I built an empire once."

"I know," Doon said. "I destroyed it."

"Oh yes, yes," Herman said. "That's why I wanted to see you."

Doon nodded and waited for the question.

"I wondered. I wanted to know why you chose me. Why you decided to do it. I can't remember why, you know. My memory isn't all it was."

Doon smiled and held the old man's hand. "No one's memory is, Grandfather. I chose you because you were the greatest. I chose you because you were the highest mountain I could climb."

"But why did you-- why did you tear? Why didn't you build another empire, and rival me?" That was the question. Ah, yes, that's the question, Herman decided. It was so much more satisfying though he still felt a small doubt. Hadn't he once had a conversation with Doon in which Doon answered him? Never. No.

Doon looked distant. "You don't know the answer?"

"Oh," Herman said, laughing, "I was once quite mad, you know, and thought you were out to wreck the Empire. They cured me."

Doon nodded, looking sad.

"But I'm quite better now, and I want to know. Just want to know."

"I tore-- I attacked your empire, Grandfather, because it was too beautiful to finish. If you had finished it, won the game, the game would have ended, and then what would have happened? It wouldn't have been remembered for very long. But now-- it's remembered forever."

"Funny, isn't it," Herman said, losing the thread of the conversation before Doon finished speaking, "that the greatest builder and the greatest wrecker should both come from the same-- should be grandfather and grandson. Funny, isn't it?"

"It's all in the family, isn't it?" Doon said with a smile.

"I'm proud of you, Doon," Herman said, and meant it for the time being. "I'm glad that if someone was strong enough to beat me, it was blood of my blood. Flesh of my--"

"Flesh," Doon interrupted. "So you're religious after all."

"I don't remember," Herman said. "Something happened to my memory, Abner Doon, and I'm not sure of everything. Was I religious? Or was it someone else?"

Doon's eyes filled with sorrow and he reached out to the old man sitting on a soft chair. Doon knelt and embraced him. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't know what it would cost you. I truly didn't."

Herman only laughed. "Oh, I didn't have any bets out that waking. It didn't cost me a dime."

Doon only held him tighter and said, again, "I'm sorry, Grandfather, "

"Oh, well, I don't mind losing," Herman answered. "In the long run, it was only a game, wasn't it?"