Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy January 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE DICTATOR
By
Milton Lesser
Ellaby's society was a perfect democracy, where all men wereequal. But some still wanted more personal attention, andthey got it, like—
ust looking at Ellaby, you could tell he was going places. He wasfive feet nine inches tall and weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. Hehad an I. Q. of ninety-eight point five-seven, less than fourhundredths off the mode. His hair was mousey and worn slightly longfor a man, slightly short for a woman. Back in High Falls, where hewas born, he was physically weaker than sixty percent of the men butstronger than sixty percent of the women.
He had been in training since his twentieth birthday to assassinatethe Dictator. Ellaby was now thirty years old.
Dorcas Sinclair met Ellaby at the pneumo-station. She was too big andstrapping for a woman, but otherwise not unattractive with herlusterless hair, slightly thick-featured face, small sagging bosom andheavy-calved legs.
"I'll take your bags," she told Ellaby, and led him from the station.She walked quickly, but not too quickly. You always had to find thehappy medium, thought Ellaby. For Ellaby, finding the happy medium hadalways come easy. Ten years ago, when Ellaby had been graduated fromthe High Falls secondary school, the four words MOST LIKELY TO SUCCEEDhad been printed under his picture in the yearbook. It was expected byeveryone: young Ellaby had learned his three R's—rules, rights,responsibilities—satisfactorily. Ellaby had neither excelled norfailed: he was by nature a first class citizen.
Running to keep up with the too big, too long-legged Dorcas Sinclairwho was carrying one of his suitcases in each hand, Ellaby was ledfrom the pneumo-station. The splendid, unimaginative geometricprecision of the Capitol stretched out before him in the dazzlingsummer sunlight, the view serving as a leaven for Ellaby's usuallyphlegmatic disposition. He could feel his spirits rise, his heartthump more rapidly, speeding the sudden flow of adrenalin through hisbody.
This was the city. It was here where the fruits of whatever had gonewrong in Ellaby's upbringing or whatever had gone wrong in the lineararrangement of his genes would ripen. It was here where Ellaby, modalEllaby would pass his tests for top-secret work; unsuspected, averageEllaby, would write his name in flaming letters across the pages ofhistory. It was here where Ellaby would kill the Dictator.
And after that—what? Chaos? A new order based not on modality butsomething else? Ellaby wasn't sure. No one in the organization knewfor sure. The concept was staggering to Ellaby. It was the system—ornothing. Well, let the others worry about it. They did the planning.Ellaby was only the executioner.
...