voice; it became hollow, hypnotic. "By a new breed of philosopher-kings, if you like. Men who understand this world as it has truly emerged, who measure its potential in terms of resources, technology and productivity, who care not one whit about the color of a man's skin, or the heritage of his ancestors, or what idols he may pray to. Who care only about his full productive potential as a human being.
And his contribution to the marketplace." "My God," said Bray. "You're talking about the conglomerates." "Does it offend you?" "Not if I owned one." "Very good." Guiderone broke into a short jackal-like laugh; it disappeared instantly. "But that's a limited point of view. There are those among us who thought you of all people would understand. You've seen the other futility; you've lived it." "By choice." "Very, very good. But that presumes there is no choice in our structure, Untrue. A man is free to develop his full potential; the greater his productivity, the greater his freedom and rewards." "Suppose he doesn't want to be productive? As you define it?" "rben obviously there's a lesser reward for the lesser contribution." "Who does defifie it?" "Trained units of management personnel, using all the technology developed in modern industry." "I guess it'd be a good idea to get to know them." "Don't waste time with sarcasm. Such teams operate daily all over the world. The international companies are not in business to lose money or forfeit profits. The system works. We prove it every day.The new society will function within a competitive, non-violent structure. Governments can no longer guarantee that; they're on nuclear collision courses everywhere. But the Chrysler Corporation does not make war on Volkswagen; no planes fill the skies to wipe out factories and whole towns centered around one or the other company. The new world will be committed to the marketplace, to the developing of resources and technology that insure the productive survival of mankind. There's no other way. The multinational community is proof; it is aggressive, highly competitive, but it is nonviolent. It bears no arms." "Chaos," said Bray. "The clashing of bodies in space. destruction before the creation of order." "Yes, Mr. Scofield. The period of violence before the permanent era of tranquility. But governments and their leaders do not relinquish their responsibilities easily. Alternatives must be given men whose backs are to the wall." "Alternatives?" "In Italy, we control nearly twenty percent of the Parliament. In Bonn, twelve percent of the Bundestag; in Japan, almost thirty-one percent of the Diet. Could we have done this without the Brigate Rosse or Baader-Meinhof or the Red Army of Japan? We grow in authority every month. With each act of terrorism we are closer to our objective: the total absence of violence." "That wasn't what Guillaume de Matarese had in mind seventy years ago." "It's much closer than you think. The padrone wanted to destroy the corruptors in governments, which all too frequently meant entire governments themselves. He gave us the structure, the methods-hired assassins to pit political factions against adversaries everywhere. He provided the initial fortune to put it all in motion; he showed us the way to chaos. All that remained was to put something in its place. We have found it. Well save this world from itself. There can be no greater cause." "You're convincing," said Scofield. "I think we may have a basis for talking further." "I'm glad you think so," answered Guiderone, his voice suddenly cold again.
"It's gratifying to know one is convincing, but much more interesting to watch the reactions of a liar." "Liar?" "You could have been part of thisl" Once more the old man shouted. "After that night in Rock Creek Park, I myself convened the council. I told it to reassess, re-evaluatel Beowulf Agate could be of incalculable value! The Russian was useless, but not you. The information you possessed could make a mockery of Washington's moral positions. I myself would have made you director of all security! On my instructions, we tried for weeks to reach you, bring you in, make you one of us. It is, of course, no longer possible. You're relentless in your deceptions! In short words, you cannot be trusted. You can never be trusted!" Bray sat forward. The Shepherd Boy was a maniac; it was in the maniacal eyes set in the hollows of his pale, gaunt skull. He was a man capable of quiet, seemingly logical discourse, but irrationality ruled him. He