But the Stranger saw, too, that buried as he was and in a piece of matter that was disintegrating even as he explored it, there was little chance of his accomplishing any of these important things.
So, avidly, he began to study the nature of matter. He could bring his perceptions down to the scale of atoms and molecules and study them. He saw that in the very soil about him he had the necessary materials, all of them, to reconstruct the body of Johnny Dix. By means of his memories of his first explorations of the incomplete body of Johnny Dix, as it had been when he first entered it, he began the study of organic chemistry.
He filled in his concept of the parts that had been missing from the body from the memories of Johnny Dix and began work.
Transmuting the chemicals of the soil was not a difficult problem. And heat was a mere matter of speeding up molecular action.
Slowly, new flesh grew upon the head of Johnny Dix; hair, eyes, and a neck began to form. It took time, but what was time to an immortal?
One evening in early spring of the following year, a naked but perfectly formed human figure clawed its way to the surface of soil that had been softened by molecular action to enable that figure to crawl out.
It lay quiet for a while, mastering the art of breathing air. Then, experimentally at first but with growing skill and confidence, it tried the use of various muscles and sensory organs.
The group of workmen on the Glendale Reconstruction Project looked around curiously as the man in the ill-fitting clothes stepped up on a packing crate and began to speak.
«Friends,» he shouted, «how long are we going to tolerate—»
A uniformed policeman stepped up quickly. «Here now,» he objected. «You can’t do that. Even if you got a permit, these are work hours and you can’t interrupt—»
«Are you satisfied, Officer, with the way things are run around here, and in Washington?»
The policeman looked up and his eyes locked with those of the man on the packing case. For a moment he felt as though an electric current had gone through his mind and body. And then he knew that this man had the right answers, that this man was a leader whom he’d follow. Anywhere.
«My name’s John Dix,» said the man on the box. «You ain’t heard of me, but you’ll be hearing of me from now on. I’m starting something, see? If you want in on the ground floor, take off that badge and throw it down. But keep your gun; it’ll come in handy.»
The policeman reached up for his badge and unfastened the pin.
That had been the start.
June 14, 1983, was the day of the end. In the morning there had been a heavy fog over Los Angeles—now capital city of North America—but by midafternoon the sun was bright and the air balmy.
Robert Welson, leader of the little group of patriots who had failed, for some reason, to join the mass hysteria with which the people had backed John Dix, sat at a window of the new Panamera Building, overlooking the vast throng in the reconstructed Rose Bowl. On the floor under the window from which he looked lay a high-powered rifle with Mercer telescopic sights.
On the stage of the Bowl, John Dix, Dictator of North America, stood alone, although uniformed guards occupied all seats immediately around the stage and were scattered elsewhere in the audience. A microphone hung just overhead and a speaker system carried the dictator’s voice to the farthest reaches of the Bowl, and beyond. Robert Welson and the others in the room with him could hear it distinctly.
«The day has come. We are prepared. People of America, I call upon you to rise in your wrath and stamp out now and forever the power of the evil countries beyond the seas.»
Over the Bowl cheering rose, a mighty wave of sound.
Through it Robert Welson heard three sharp raps on the door of the room behind him. He crossed the room and opened the door. A tall man and a scrawny boy with a large head and great vacuous eyes came into the room.
«You brought the kid,» said Welson, «What for? He can’t—»
The tall man spoke. «You know Dix isn’t human, Welson. You know how much good our bullets have done before! Why, in Pittsburgh, I saw them hit him. But this clairvoyant kid here—or maybe it’s telepathy or something and not clairvoyance and I don’t know or care—has got a line on him somehow. The first time the kid ever saw him he went into a fit. We can’t fight Dix without knowing what we’re fighting, can we?»
Welson shrugged. «Maybe. You play with that. I’m going to keep on trying steel-jacketed lead.»
He drew a deep breath and walked again to the window. He knelt before it on one knee and raised the sash. His left hand reached for the rifle.
«Here goes,» Welson said. «Maybe if we get enough lead in him—»
McLaughin, author of the most famous biography of John Dix, while avoiding direct acceptance of any of the legends which have filled many other books, concedes the mystical aspect of Dix’s rise to power.
«It is indeed strange,» he writes, «that immediately, suddenly, after his assassination, the wave of insanity which had engulfed the United States disappeared abruptly and completely. Had not the few true patriots who failed to follow his lead succeeded, the history of the world during the last part of the twentieth century would have been a story of bloody carnage unparalleled in history.
«Extermination, or ruthless suppression, would have been the lot of every country which he could have conquered and there is little doubt, in view of the superior armaments he had, that the ravage would have been far-flung. He might even have conquered the world. Although, of course, America itself would ultimately have suffered most.
«To say that John Dix was a madman can hardly explain the extent of his power over the people of his own country. Almost it is possible to credit the current superstition that he had superhuman powers. But if he was a superman, he was a warped superman.
«It was almost as though an ignorant, prejudiced, opinionated man, narrow-minded in every way, had miraculously been given the power to sway most of the population, able to impress his narrow hatreds upon all, or almost all, of those who listened. The few who were immune, battling terrific odds, saved the world from Armageddon.
«The exact manner of his death remains, after all this time, shrouded in mystery. Whether he was killed by a new weapon—destroyed after it had accomplished its purpose—or whether the monstrous thing seen by the throngs in the Bowl was a mere illusion, the trick of a prestidigitator extraordinary, will never be certainly known.»
The muzzle of the rifle rested on the ledge of the window. Robert Welson steadied it and peered through the telescopic sights. His finger rested against the trigger.
The voice of the dictator boomed through the speaker «Our day of destiny—» Sentence incompleted, he paused, leaning forward across the table behind which he stood. The audience was hushed, awaiting completion of the sentence before the cheering would rise again.
The tall man standing behind Robert Welson put an urgent hand on Welson’s shoulder. «Don’t shoot yet,» he whispered. «Something’s happening. Look at the kid, the clairvoyant.»
Welson turned.
He saw that the scrawny boy had fallen back into a chair, his muscles rigid. His eyes were closed, his face twisted. His lips writhed as he spoke:
«They’re there. Near him. Like two shining points of light, only you can’t see them. But there is a point like them—inside John Dix’s head!