He dreamed a dream as old as man, of stretching today into forever.
Immortality.
The coup next morning was no more difficult, though bloodier, than Boyle had anticipated.
At nine sharp, he left David Locke at the controls of his helicar on the sun-bright roof landing of AL&O, took a self-service elevator down four floors and walked calmly to the deliberation chamber where Administrative Council met with the visitors from Alcor. He was armed for any eventuality with an electronic freeze-gun, a sleep-capsule of anesthetic gas, and a nut-sized incendiary bomb capable of setting afire an ordinary building.
His first hope of surprising the Council in conference was dashed in the antechamber, rendering his sleep-bomb useless. Dorand was a moment late; he came in almost on Boyle's heels, his face blank with astonishment at finding an intruder ahead of him.
The freeze-gun gave him no time for questions.
"Quiet," Boyle ordered, and drove the startled Councilor ahead of him into the deliberations chamber.
He was just in time. Cornelison had one bony arm already bared for the longevity injection; Bissell sat in tense anticipation of his elder's reaction; the Alcorian, Fermiirig, stood at Cornelison's side with a glittering hypodermic needle in one of his four three-fingered hands.
For the moment, a sudden chill of apprehension touched Boyle. There should have been two Alcorians.