John Moore Mallory had come back to the city once again. He bulked four times the height of a normal man and there was that singular ghostliness about him. From where he had come, or how, or why, no one seemed to know.
But when he reached the steps of the federation’s administration building and walked straight through a line of troopers that suddenly massed to bar his way, and when he turned on those steps and spoke to the people who had gathered, there was none to doubt that at last a sign had come. The sign that now, if ever, was the time to avenge the purge. Now the time to take vengeance for the blood that flowed in gutters, for the throaty chortling of the flame guns that had snuffed out lives against a broad steel wall.
Standing on the steps, shadowy but plainly visible, John Moore Mallory talked to the people in the square below, and his voice was the voice they remembered. They saw him toss his black mane of hair, they saw his clenched fist raised in terrible anger, they heard the boom of the words he spoke.
Like a shrilling alarm the words spread through the city, reverberating from the dome, seeking out those who were in hiding. From every corner of the city, from its deepest cellars and its darkest alleys, poured out a mass of humanity that surrounded the capitol and blackened the square and the converging streets with a mob that shrieked its hatred, bellowed its anger.
“Power!” thundered the mighty shadow on the steps. “Power to burn! Power to give away. Power to heat the dome, to work your mines, to drive your spaceships!”
“Power!” answered the voice of the crowd. “Power!” It sounded like a battle cry.
“No more accumulators,” roared the towering image. “Never again need you rely on Spencer Chambers for your power. Callisto is yours. Ranthoor is yours.”
The black crowd surged forward, reached the steps and started to climb, wild cheers in their throat, the madness of victory in their eyes. Up the steps came men with nothing but bare hands, screaming women, jeering children.
Officers snapped orders at the troops that lined the steps, but the troopers, staring into the awful, raging maw of that oncoming crowd, dropped their guns and fled, back into the capitol building, with the mob behind them, shrilling blood lust and long-awaited vengeance.
*
Out of the red and yellow wilderness of the deserts, a man came to Sandebar on Mars. He had long been thought dead. The minions of the government had announced that he was dead. But he had been in hiding for six years.
His beard was long and gray, his eyes were curtained by hardship, his white hair hung about his shoulders and he was clothed in the tattered leather trappings of the spaceways.
But men remembered him.
Tom Brown had lead the last revolt against the Martian government, an ill-starred revolt that ended almost before it started when the troopers turned loose the heavy heaters and swept the streets with washing waves of flame.
When he climbed to the base of a statue in Techor Park to address the crowd that gathered, the police shouted for him to come down and he disregarded them. They climbed the statue to reach him and their hands went through him.
Tom Brown stood before the people, in plain view, and spoke, but he wasn’t there!
Other things happened in Sandebar that day. A voice spoke out of thin air, a voice that told the people the reign of Interplanetary was over. It told of a mighty new source of power. Power that would cost almost nothing. Power that would make the accumulators unnecessary ... would make them out of date. A voice that said the people need no longer submit to the yoke of Spencer Chambers’ government in order to obtain the power they needed.
There was no one there ... no one visible at all. And yet that voice went on and on. A great crowd gathered, listening, cheering. The police tried to break it up and failed. The troops were ordered out and the people fought them until the voice told them to disband peaceably and go to their homes.
Throughout Mars it was the same.
In a dozen places in Sandebar the voice spoke. It spoke in a dozen places, out of empty air, in Malacon and Alexon and Adebron.
Tom Brown, vanishing into the air after his speech was done, reappeared a few minutes later in Adebron and there the police, warned of what had happened in Sandebar, opened fire upon him when he stood on a park bench to address the people. But the flames passed through and did not touch him. Tom Brown, his long white beard covering his chest, his mad eyes flashing, stood in the fiery blast that bellowed from the muzzles of the flame rifles and calmly talked.
*
The chief of police at New Chicago, Venus, called the police commissioner. “There’s a guy out here in the park, just across the street. He’s preaching treason. He’s telling the people to overthrow the government.”
In the ground glass the police commissioner’s face grew purple.
“Arrest him,” he ordered the chief. “Clap him in the jug. Do you have to call me up every time one of those fiery-eyed boys climbs a soap box? Run him in.”
“I can’t,” said the chief.
The police commissioner seemed ready to explode. “You can’t? Why the hell not?”
“Well, you know that hill in the center of the park? Memorial Hill?”
“What has a hill got to do with it?” the commissioner roared.
“He’s sitting on top of that hill. He’s a thousand feet tall. His head is way up in the sky and his voice is like thunder. How can you arrest anybody like that?”
*
Everywhere in the System, revolt was flaming. New marching songs rolled out between the worlds, wild marching songs that had the note of anger in them. Weapons were brought out of hiding and polished. New standards were raised in an ever-rising tide against oppression.
Freedom was on the march again. The right of a man to rule himself the way he chose to rule. A new declaration of independence. A Solar Magna Carta.
There were new leaders, led by the old leaders. Led by spirits that marched across the sky. Led by voices that spoke out of the air. Led by signs and symbols and a new-born courage and a great and a deep conviction that right in the end would triumph.
*
Spencer Chambers glared at Ludwig Stutsman. “This is one time you went too far.”
“If you’d given me a free hand before, this wouldn’t have been necessary,” Stutsman said. “But you were soft. You made me go easy when I should have ground them down. You left the way open for all sorts of plots and schemes and leaders to develop.”
The two men faced one another, one the smooth, tawny lion, the other the snarling wolf.
“You’ve built up hatred, Stutsman,” Chambers said. “You are the most hated man in the Solar System. And because of you, they hate me. That wasn’t my idea. I needed you because I needed an iron fist, but I needed it to use judiciously. And you have been ruthless. You’ve used force when conciliation was necessary.”
Stutsman sneered openly. “Still that old dream of a benevolent dictatorship. Still figuring yourself a little bronze god to be set up in every household.
