"Who are you?"

They said nothing, just approached him silently, slowly. He realized that he was cut off, both from the front door and the emergency exit. He backed into the bedroom. One of the men reached out a hand, and Herman found himself crushed against the doorjamb.

"Don't hurt me," he said.

The first man, taller than the others, tapped Herman's shoulder with his bludgeon. Now Herman knew how hard it was. The tapping continued, getting harder and harder, but the rhythm was steady. Herman stood frozen, unable to move, as the pain gradually increased. And then, suddenly, the man shifted his weight, swung the bludgeon backhand, and Herman's ribs were smashed. The breath left him in a grunt, and pain like great hands tearing apart his insides swept up and down his body.

The agony was unbearable.

They were just beginning.

"No doctors, no hospital, nothing. No," Herman said, trying to summon a forceful tone of voice from his battered chest.

"Herman," Grey said, "your ribs may be broken."

"They aren't."

"You're not a doctor."

"I have the best medical kit in the city, and it said that nothing was broken. Whoever those bastards were last night, they know what they're doing."

Grey sighed. "I know who those bastards were, Herman."

Herman looked at Grey in surprise, almost rising from the bed, though the pain stopped him as abruptly as if he were strapped down.

"They were the men I hired to rough up Abner Doon."

Herman moaned. "Grey, no, it can't be-- how could he have talked them out of it?"

"They had an ironclad contract. They've worked for me before. I have no idea how Doon subverted them." Grey looked worried. "He has power where I didn't expect it. They've been offered money before-- a lot of money-- but they always kept their contracts. Except when I hired them to teach Doon a lesson."

"I wonder," Herman said, "if he learned anything."

"I wonder," Grey added, more to the point, "if you did."

The days passed, and soon Herman was able to hobble back into the room where the computer screen dominated one wall, where the holo of the world of Europe 1914d rotated slowly. Whatever Doon's motive was, Herman saw countless proofs of the fact that Doon knew nothing about playing International Games. He didn't even learn from his own mistakes. The forcible occupation of Guiana was followed by a pointless attack on Afghanistan, which had already been a client state, driving several other client states to the enemy alliance. But Herman's rage finally faded, and he glumly watched as the position of Italy worsened.

Italy's enemies weren't particularly brilliant. They could have been defeated-- could still be defeated, if only Herman could get to play.

It was when a revolution flared in England that Herman closed his eyes, hoping Grey would drop dead.

"Forget the game. Buy Italy next time. Doon's got to go under somec sometime."

Herman didn't open his eyes, and Grey went away.

Herman began to rage again.

From the beginning of the game, Herman had established a carefully benign dictatorship as the government of the Italian Empire, with local autonomy on, many matters. It was not oppressive. It was guaranteed to eliminate any chance of revolution. Any rebellions were ruthlessly suppressed, while territories that didn't rebel were lavishly rewarded. It had been years since Herman had had to worry about the internal politics of Italy.

But when the English revolution began, Herman began to scan Doon's activities in the internal affairs of the empire. Doon had pointlessly changed things, taxing the populace, emphasizing the difference between the rich and poor, the powerful and the weak. He had also oppressed local nationalities, compelling them to learn Italian, and the computer had brought the inevitable result-- resentment, rebellion, and at last revolution.

What was Doon doing? Surely he could see the result of his actions. Surely he could tell that he was doing everything-- or at least something-- wrong. Surely he would realize he was out of his class in this game, and sell Italy while he still could. Surely--

"Grey," Herman said over the phone, "this Doon. Is he stupid?"

"If he is, it's the best-kept secret on Capitol."

"His game is too stupid to believed. Totally stupid. He's doing everything wrong. Anything that could be done right, he's done the opposite. Does that sound like him to you?"

"Doon's built up a financial empire from nothing to the largest I've ever heard of on Capitol, and done it in only eleven years since his majority," Grey answered. "That doesn't sound like him."

"Which means that either he's not playing the game himself--"

"No, he's playing, that's the law and the computer says he's following it--"

"Or he's deliberately playing to lose."

Grey's shrug was almost audible. "Why would anybody do that?"

"I want to meet him."

"He'll never come."

"On some neutral ground, someplace that neither of us controls."

"Herman, you don't know this man. If you don't control the ground, he does-- or will, by the time meeting takes place. There is no neutral ground."

"I want to meet him, Grey. I want to find out what the hell he's doing with my empire."

And Herman went back to watching as the revolution in England was put down brutally. Brutally, but not thoroughly. The computer showed armed bands still roaming in Wales and the Scottish highlands, and urban guerrillas still alive in London, Manchester, and Liverpool. Doon could see that information, too. But he chose to ignore it. And chose to ignore the revolutionary movement gaining force in Germany, the brigands harassing the farmers in Mesopotamia, the Chinese encroachments in Siberia.

Asinine.

And the fabric of a well-wrought empire began to come apart.

The telephone sent its gentle buzz into the flexible speaker in his pillow, and Herman awoke. Not even opening his eyes, he said into the pillow, "I'm asleep, drop dead."

"This is Grey."

"You're fired, Grey."

"Doon says he'll meet with you."

"Call my secretary for an appointment."

"But he says he'll only meet with you if you can come to the C24b tube station within thirty minutes."

"That isn't even in my sector," Herman complained.

"So he isn't trying to make it easy for you."

Herman groaned and got out of bed, dressed in a suit that looked far from natty as he sagged out of the flat and into the corridors. The tubes were running a half-schedule at that time of morning, and Herman stumbled into one and followed the route that let him to station C24b. It was even less crowded than Herman's own area, and there on the platform waited an unprepossessing young man, only a little taller than Herman himself. He was alone.

"Doon?" Herman asked.

"Grandfather," the young man answered. Herman looked at him blankly. Grandfather?

"Not possible."

"Abner Doon, colt, out of filly Sylvaii, daughter of Herman Nuber and Birniss Humbol. An admirable pedigree, don't you think?"

Herman was appalled. After all these solitary years, to discover that his young tormentor was a relative-- "Dammit, boy, I have no family. What is this, vengeance for a divorce a hundred years ago? I paid your grandmother well. If you're telling the truth."

But Doon only smiled. "Actually, Grandfather, I don't give a damn about your liaison and lack of it with my grandmother. I don't like her anyway, and we haven't spoken in years. She says I'm too much like you. And so now when she comes out of somec, she doesn't even look me up. I visit her just to be annoying."

"A trait you seem to specialize in."

"You find a long-lost grandchild, and already you're trying to cause division in the family. What an ugly way of dealing with family crises."