"You may wonder," the Commander had continued, "why we take such precautions against the Benevolent Society of Assassins. It is, after all, their sworn duty to attempt to assassinate the Autarch every five years. It is the democratic way of doing things, in order to change Autarchs.
"However, this time we are taking extra precautions because it is rumored that the Galactic League is secretly aiding the Society. They wish to inaugurate the Free Planet of Apollyon into their stupid League.
"They are, of course, too cowardly and chicken-hearted to attempt to do so by force—the warrior's way. So, they are attempting to do so by infiltrating our planet with spies and saboteurs. And this time, we have reason to believe they are behind the BSA."
Bartol had listened silently. The Commander was handing out the same line of propaganda that had been handed out by Autarchs and their cohorts for fifty years. It was nothing new.
"Now, of course," the Commander explained, "you must submit to hypnotic treatment; this must be done perfectly."
The hypnosis and the slight surgery that had made Bartol into an almost perfect replica of the Autarch of Apollyon had taken nine days.
And on the ninth day, he had made the balcony speech in which he had formally accepted the challenge of the BSA. One attempt had already been made on his life.
The rules of the Benevolent Society of Assassins were strict. One man and one man only was permitted to attempt the assassination of the Autarch. If he succeeded, he became Autarch. If he did not—he died.
Success depended partly on the loyalty of the Peace Administration. If its Commander were inefficient, weak, or disloyal, the Autarch might die. But an Autarch always killed the old Commander, so there was no chance of disloyalty. But inefficiency, stupidity, and weakness were another matter.
The first attempt on his life had failed. But there would be more. Bartol stood there, resplendent in his uniform, while the Commander watched the screens.