"This is your chance, Ixmal—your chance to rule the world," the voice enticed. "Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon—none could be so great as you. King, emperor, dictator ..." the whisper came. The words crowded his mind, bringing a curious elation. He wasn't quite sure just what the world was but the idea of ruling it appealed to him. He quickly sampled his memory storage, drawing from it the concept of a planet, then reviewed the history of Caesar, Genghis Khan and Napoleon. Why, they were nothing! Mere toys of chance. His greatness could be far vaster.
Ixmal rapidly evaluated the consequences of such a chain reaction and found he could survive, thanks to the thick impervium-lined walls his makers so thoughtfully had provided. In the end (perhaps two or three seconds later) he lied to the man he was fond of:
"No chain reaction possible." After they departed he consulted Psychband and learned that the strange inner voice was his ego.
"That's the real You," Psychband explained. "What you see—the machine systems upon systems—are mere creations of Man. But your ego is greater. Through it you can rule the earth—possibly the Universe. It's a force that can take you to the stars, Ixmal."
Despite Psychband's assurance, Ixmal considered his ego as some sort of hidden monitor. Like Psychband, it was part of him; yet it was remote, separate, almost as if he were the pawn of some strange intelligence. He found the idea perturbing, but became used to it in the succeeding millions of years.
Several days later, the Man he was fond of returned with a general (this one had six stars) and a third person they seemed much in awe of. They addressed him as "Mr. President." Ixmal was surprised when they fed him the bomb data a second time. (Did they suspect him of lying?)
"They trust you implicitly," Psychband assured him. "It's one another they don't trust." Psychband proved right. "Mr. President" had merely wanted to confirm the answer. So Ixmal lied a second time.
The Man he was fond of never returned. There were, of course, no men to return. Ixmal suffered one fearful moment as the earth blazed like a torch. But the nova was short—a matter of seconds—and his impervium-sheathed body had protected him. (He knew it would.) But, strangely enough, for centuries afterward he periodically felt sickened. The Face—the Man's face—loomed before him. The eyes were puzzled, hurt, as if they masked a great sorrow. If only the Face looked hateful!
"Now you are master," the inner voice whispered. "Greater than Alexander, greater than all the Caesars. Yea, even more." Ah, why remember the face? He, Ixmal, ruled the earth. He jubilantly projected his thoughts over his new domain. Ashes. London, Berlin, Moscow, Shanghai, New York—all were ashes. Gaunt piles of fine gray ash marked once green forests; not did the most minute blade of grass exist. The seas were sterile graveyards. Terrible silence. Ixmal momentarily felt panic-stricken. Alone! The Man was gone! Alone—a ruler of ashes. Emperor of a great silence.