He found them a naive race. Weakness, of course, was their short coming. As was often the case. He imagined his hand touching the lever that would trigger the explosive. He saw, in imagination, the planet fly asunder.
He had destroyed before. Five races had died beneath his hands. And now—
Perhaps, he thought, I am growing old. Why is it I do not want to destroy this race myself? Am I becoming weak?
He was angry with himself. Weakness! he thought. I'm acting like a subject, he thought. I'm an Oligarch.
Oligarch, he thought.
Five races, and now the sixth....
Where will it end? he thought.
It will never end.
Slowly the smile came. We are supreme, he thought, the lords and masters, and it will never end.
His scalp prickled with destiny.