"War will be eradicated. Discord will not exist. Personal ambition and competition among men will be done away forever. In Phase Three, I offer you a world where each nation and all the people in it serve one function to benefit all mankind. Japan, for example, will be a completely technological society, producing electronics for the entire world. All persons living in Japan will serve its one industry, and all will benefit."
"You can't be serious," Smith said. "Japan is a nation, not a company. You can't expect every single person in the entire country to work for one industry. What happens to everything else?"
"I'm glad that you're showing an interest, Dr. Smith. The Scandinavian countries will be the dairy center of the earth. Greenland, because of its geological stability, will contain the nuclear components to heat and light the planet for centuries to come. All of the fish and sea products used by the population of the earth will issue from a chain of islands in the South Pacific. The Soviet Union, because of its vast grasslands, will produce livestock."
"Livestock?" Smith asked, dazed. "What about America?"
"The United States possesses the largest expanse of fertile land in the world. For this reason, all of America will be converted to farmland. Your country will feed the world."
"We'll be farmers?"
"Indeed."
Smith sputtered. "Another 'final solution' by another lunatic," he shouted. "The world will laugh at you."
"Oh, but you're wrong. You underestimate the far-reaching effects of Phase One. The silent messages transmitted through television will continue to be broadcast until the world finds itself begging for its new leader. And Abraxas shall be there for them. On the twelfth of this month, I will reveal myself to all the people of the planet. The purpose of my broadcast will be to instruct them to follow me. They will listen, I assure you. They will follow me into the new age. And none will laugh."
The people at the table leaped to their feet, applauding and stamping. LePat took up the name of Abraxas in a chant, and the others joined him.
"I thank you," the deep voice said at last. "And now I wish for you all to see the work that the members of the Phase One task force have already begun. Circe, the lights, please."
The room dimmed.
"What you are about to see is recent film documenting actual occurrences around the world. It is the result of a program using the same type of subliminal television messages that worked so successfully with Mr. Peabody and the other assassins in our tests. The message that was broadcast in this case was the single word 'Abraxas.' If you will, Circe."
The projector clacked to life. Light flooded the blank screen. An image appeared of a throng of people gathered around the Eiffel Tower, their hands raised to the sky. The noise was deafening as the people in the film opened and closed their mouths in unison. "Abraxas!" they shouted again and again, the chant growing louder.
"Abraxas," called a crowd of thousands gathered near St. Stephen's Tower at the foot of Big Ben. "Abraxas," chanted a gathering of hundreds of saffron-robed Hindus before the reflecting pool of the Taj Mahal. Millions, from the factories of Peking to the streets of Nairobi, called the name of the new god. The chant was on the lips of Iowa farmers and Danish fishermen and Korean students and Russian sailors. "Abraxas," spoke the people of the world.
"My God," Smith said. Whatever madness had been committed, however the gears of Abraxas's terrible destructive machine had been put into motion, Smith knew only that he must reach the president.
But his attaché case was gone, and the portable telephone inside it. To warn the one man who could end Abraxas's reign of terror before it progressed further, Smith would have to escape the South Shore compound.
Overhead, the camera continued to swing in its arc above the darkened room. The delegates cheered as the film went on, chanting along with the masses on the screen.
He had a chance, Smith said to himself, eyeing the door. He hadn't seen any guards around the compound. It was dark in the room. If he could dash out of the place while the camera was angled away from him, he might be able to make a run for the village.
He waited for his moment. Then, when the group was roaring and the camera tilted toward the far left corner, he doubled over and ducked out of the room.
It was dark outside, the dirt road illuminated only by the moon and the stars. The fence surrounding South Shore was fairly tall, but Smith managed to climb it. At the top, he dropped over the side. A stabbing pain shot through his ankle.
He stood up and tested the leg. It was only a sprain, but the pain was bad. He told himself that he'd been hurt much worse during his years with the OSS and the CIA. That was a long time ago, but he hadn't forgotten his training. He scrambled quickly away from the fence and limped along the side of the road, traveling as fast as he could among the shadows.
The village was more than a mile away. By the time he reached the deserted main intersection, his ankle was throbbing with pain that pounded at him in waves. "The president," he mumbled. Once he found the telephone he was looking for, it didn't matter what Abraxas did to him. But he had to find that phone.
He had seen a telecommunications center on the outskirts of the village on his way into South Shore from the airport. From it, he had guessed that Abaco was one of those islands where private telephones were scarce, and most calls were made through one office. If his leg would only hold out until he reached the office, he could probably break into it.
Past the village, a small circle of light glowed on a winding side road. Smith recognized it. The telecommunications center was nearby. He forced his swelling ankle to move toward the light.
Below the bright circle the building stood, alone and vulnerable, its windows at eye level. Even with his useless leg, breaking into the place would be easy.
He picked up a rock and, spreading his coat over the window, broke it silently. Groaning from the pain in his leg, he managed to hoist himself up to the window and swing inside.
There was a switchboard, a primitive model Smith could figure out with one look. Crouched in the darkness, he whispered to the overseas operator and waited for the connection to click through to Washington.
"The White House. Good evening," the operator said after what felt like an interminable wait. Smith was sweating. His ankle pounded mercilessly.
"This is Dr. Harold W. Smith. I must speak with the president."
"I'm afraid that's not possible at this time, Mr. Smith," the operator said cheerfully. "Will you leave a message?"
"I assure you I'm not a crank," he said. "Please give the president my name. This is an urgent matter. And it's Doctor Smith."
"I've told you, Mr. Smith..."
He didn't hear the rest of her sentence. Outside, a car's headlights approached.
They followed me.
"I cannot reach the president through the channels I normally use," Smith persisted, glancing toward the headlights. They veered onto the side road, toward him. "This is a matter of top national security. Please tell him it's Harold Smith, and hurry. There isn't much time."
"Well, I don't know..."
"Tell him!" Smith hissed.
The car's engine droned louder as it neared the building, then shut off suddenly. Two doors slammed. "Hurry!"
"All right," the operator said uncertainly. "But this better be for real."
"It is." He waited. Sweat poured down his face into the collar of his shirt. His heart felt like a frightened bird flapping inside his chest. The line was silent. "Please hurry," he whispered into the dead phone.
The doorknob turned and clicked as it hit the lock. Someone on the other side kicked at it. Smith watched the cheap wood bend with the blow.