The Question

The Dictator

“Arecibo is only a few hours from here, by jet transport,” the Dictator repeated, staring out the ceiling-high windows of his office at the troops assembled on the plaza below. “Our paratroops can get there and seize the radio telescope facility well before eighteen hundred hours.”

His minister of foreign affairs, a career diplomat who had survived four coups d’etat and two revolutions by the simple expedient of agreeing with whichever clique seized power, cast a dubious eye at his latest Maximum Leader.

“A military attack on Puerto Rico is an attack on the United States,” he said, as mildly as he could, considering the wretched state of his stomach.

The Dictator turned to glare at him. “So?”

“The Yankees will not let an attack on their territory go unanswered. They will strike back at us.”

The Dictator toyed with his luxuriant mustache, a maneuver he used whenever he wanted to hide inner misgivings. At last he laughed and said, “What can the Gringos do, once I have asked The Question?”

The foreign minister knew better than to argue. He simply sat in the leather wing chair and stared at the Dictator, who looked splendid in his full-dress military uniform with all the medals and the sash of office crossing his proud chest.

“Yes,” the Dictator went on, convincing himself (if not the foreign minister), “it is all so simple. While the scientists and world leaders fumble and agonize over what The Question should be, I—your Maximum Leader—knew instantly what I wanted to ask. I knew it! Without a moment of hesitation.”

The spacious, high-ceilinged palace room seemed strangely warm to the foreign minister. He pulled the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and mopped his fevered brow.

“Yes,” the Dictator was going on, congratulating himself, “while the philosophers and weaklings try to reach an agreement, I act. I seize the radio telescope and send to the alien visitors The Question. My question!”

“The man of action always knows what to do,” the foreign minister parroted.

“Exactly! I knew what The Question should be, what it must be. How can I rule the world? What other question matters?”

“But to ask it, you must have the Arecibo facility in your grasp.”

“For only a few hours. Even one single hour will do.”

“Can your troops operate the radio telescope?”

A cloud flickered across the Dictator’s face, but it passed almost as soon as it appeared.

“No, of course not,” he replied genially. “They are soldiers, not scientists. But the scientists who make up the staff at Arecibo will operate the radio telescope for us.”

“You are certain… ?”

“With guns at their heads?” The Dictator threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, they will do what they are told. We may have to shoot one or two, to convince the others, but they will do what they are told, never fear.”

“And afterward? How do the troops get away?”

The Dictator shrugged. “There has not been enough time to plan for removing them from Arecibo.”

Eyes widening, stomach clenching, the foreign minister gasped, “You’re going to leave them there?”

“They are all volunteers.”

“And when the Yankee Marines arrive? What then?”

“What difference? By then I will have the answer from the aliens. What are the lives of a handful of martyrs compared to the glory of ruling the entire world?”

The foreign minister struggled to his feet. “You must forgive me, my leader. My stomach…”

And he lurched toward the bathroom, hoping he could keep himself from retching until he got to the toilet.