MISRULE
by ROBERT SCOTT
Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars
for his good fortune every day of his
life ... every day, that is, but one!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The brick smashed through the window and skittered across the top of Glen Wheatley's desk. He had already removed most of the breakables, but it caught a large plastic ash tray and sent it caroming off his cheekbone. A thin trickle of blood crept down his face.
"Good God, aren't they starting a little early this year?" Bert Hillary, who shared Wheatley's office, was obviously not expecting an answer. He had been making it clear for the past hour (they had all got to their desks an hour earlier for this day) that he was an old hand, while this was Glen's first experience of People's Day.
Glen knew that Hillary had been in the Civil Service only five or six years. He himself could hardly be accused of being an expert on the every-four-years Day. Still, he waited for the older man to make the first move.
Hillary got up and peered cautiously out the shattered window. "Yeah, they're already boiling around the outer wall like yeast in a vat. That guy with the brick must have quite a pitching arm." Sweat stood out on his forehead. He was clearly much more frightened than he pretended to be.