"Yes."

"What kind of a place is this, this Earth?"

The other strained to think. "It's.... It's.... I don't believe it."

"All men are created equal," Herb said.

"And they hold these truths to be self evident...."

"Nor make any laws abridging...."

"Shhhhh!" the third starman whispered. "Microphones up here." They fell silent.

The Oligarch went to his stateroom and ordered a meal. He had been indoctrinated by the sleep tapes about Earth well over a Brionimanian year previously. The tapes had been brought back by an extensive scouting expedition composed solely of Oligarchs.

He found them a naive race. Weakness, of course, was their short coming. As was often the case. He imagined his hand touching the lever that would trigger the explosive. He saw, in imagination, the planet fly asunder.

He had destroyed before. Five races had died beneath his hands. And now—

Perhaps, he thought, I am growing old. Why is it I do not want to destroy this race myself? Am I becoming weak?

He was angry with himself. Weakness! he thought. I'm acting like a subject, he thought. I'm an Oligarch.

Oligarch, he thought.

Five races, and now the sixth....

Where will it end? he thought.

It will never end.

Slowly the smile came. We are supreme, he thought, the lords and masters, and it will never end.

His scalp prickled with destiny.

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