Kill Me if You Can!

He had learned, all right. The Commander had selected him as a double for the Autarch himself! Every citizen of the planet Apollyon had his mental and physical characteristics on file in the Master Records of the Grand Palace. To select a double for the Autarch, it was only necessary to feed the physical characteristics of Apollyon's absolute ruler into Master Records. The computer compared his total appearance with everyone else on the planet and had come up with the one man who most closely resembled him.

Rad Bartol.

Bartol had asked: "But why is this necessary? Why not use an android double?"

Feeling in a somewhat expansive mood, the Commander explained. "Because there are instruments which can tell the radiation of a human brain from the coarser vibrations of a metal-colloid brain. No robot could pass; you can.

"Now, I don't want you to feel that we are sacrificing you, so to speak. Every effort will be made to save your life. But we feel that it is better for the Benevolent Society of Assassins to nail you than for them to nail the Autarch. Don't you agree?"

Bartol most definitely did not; he had no more intention of dying for the tyrant dictator of Apollyon than he had of running away. But he smiled and said: "It would be a citizen's greatest privilege."

"You may wonder," the Commander had continued, "why we take such precautions against the Benevolent Society of Assassins. It is, after all, their sworn duty to attempt to assassinate the Autarch every five years. It is the democratic way of doing things, in order to change Autarchs.

"However, this time we are taking extra precautions because it is rumored that the Galactic League is secretly aiding the Society. They wish to inaugurate the Free Planet of Apollyon into their stupid League.

"They are, of course, too cowardly and chicken-hearted to attempt to do so by force--the warrior's way. So, they are attempting to do so by infiltrating our planet with spies and saboteurs. And this time, we have reason to believe they are behind the BSA."

Bartol had listened silently. The Commander was handing out the same line of propaganda that had been handed out by Autarchs and their cohorts for fifty years. It was nothing new.

"Now, of course," the Commander explained, "you must submit to hypnotic treatment; this must be done perfectly."

The hypnosis and the slight surgery that had made Bartol into an almost perfect replica of the Autarch of Apollyon had taken nine days.

And on the ninth day, he had made the balcony speech in which he had formally accepted the challenge of the BSA. One attempt had already been made on his life.

The rules of the Benevolent Society of Assassins were strict. One man and one man only was permitted to attempt the assassination of the Autarch. If he succeeded, he became Autarch. If he did not--he died.

Success depended partly on the loyalty of the Peace Administration. If its Commander were inefficient, weak, or disloyal, the Autarch might die. But an Autarch always killed the old Commander, so there was no chance of disloyalty. But inefficiency, stupidity, and weakness were another matter.

The first attempt on his life had failed. But there would be more. Bartol stood there, resplendent in his uniform, while the Commander watched the screens.

There were about a dozen androids in the room, moving here and there, dispatching orders as the Commander gave them.

Finally, the Commander turned. His face looked quite calm. "The BSA androids have started their attack on the Palace. My own androids are holding them off so far, of course, but that is only part of the diversion. The real, human assassin may get into the Palace by trickery. After that, it will be up to you."

He walked over to an arms cabinet. "Your personal equipment is here. Force-field belt, cutter beam--everything. And may I say--good luck."

A moment later, Bartol was seated in the private citadel of the Autarch himself, waiting for a murderer to come after him.