the old man with whom he identified himself would draw a stun-pistol,
occasionally, to defend himself.

The years drained one by one through the hour-glass of Time. Year after
year, the world grew more peaceful, more beautiful. There were no more
incidents like the mass-suicide of Munich or the mass-perversions of New
Orleans; the playing and even the composing of music was strictly
controlled--no dangerous notes or chords could be played in a world
drenched with Ingredient Beta. Steadily the idea grew that peace and
beauty were supremely good, that violence and ugliness were supremely
evil. Even competitive sports which simulated violence; even children
born ugly and misshapen....

* * * * *

He finished the breakfast which he had prepared for himself--he trusted
no food that another had touched--and knotted the vivid blue scarf about
his neck before slipping into the loose coat of glossy plum-brown, then
checked the stun-pistol and pocketed the black notebook, its
plastileather cover glossy from long use. He stood in front of the
mirror, brushing his beard, now snow-white. Two years, now, and he would
be eighty--had he been anyone but The Guide, he would have long ago
retired to the absolute peace and repose of one of the Elders' Havens.
Peace and repose, however, were not for The Guide; it would take another
twenty years to finish his task of remaking the world, and he would need
every day of it that his medical staff could borrow or steal for him. He
made an eye-baffling practice draw with the stun-pistol, then holstered
it and started down the spiral stairway to the office below.

There was the usual mass of papers on his desk. A corps of secretaries