When he had outlined the propaganda and string-pulling plans for them, he turned to the other matter—the Red leader's boast of ability to conquer the West.
"It's probably foolish talk, but we don't know their present psychology. Double production on our most impressive weapons. Give the artificial-satellite program all the money it wants, and get them moving on it. I want a missile-launching site in space before the end of the year. Pay particular attention to depopulation weapons for use against industrial areas. We may have to strike in a hurry. We've been fools—coasting this way, feeling secure behind the Wall."
"You're not contemplating another peace-effort, John?" gasped an elderly Stand-in.
"I'm contemplating survival!" the leader snapped. "I don't know that we're in serious danger, but if it takes a peace-effort to make sure, then we'll start one. So fast it'll knock out their industry before they know we've hit them." He stood frozen for a moment, the mask lifted proudly erect. "By Ike, I love the West! And it's not going to suffer any creeping eruption while I'm at its head!"
When the President had finished and was ready to leave, the others started donning their masks again.
"Just a minute," he grunted. "Number Six."
One of the men, about the President's size and build, looked up quickly. "Yes, John?"
"Your cloak is stained at the left shoulder. Grease?"
Six inspected it curiously, then nodded. "I was inspecting a machine shop, and—"
"Never mind. Trade cloaks with me."