with his death,
they're going to be mad. They won't like it, and there'll be hell to
pay--"

Shandor lit a smoke with trembling fingers, his eyes smouldering. "So
the people have to be eased out of the picture," he said flatly.
"They've got to get the story so they won't be so angry--"

Hart nodded, grinning. "They've got to have a real story, Tommy. Big,
blown up, what a great guy he was, defender of the peace, greatest, most
influential man America has turned out since the half-century--you know
what they lap up, the usual garbage, only on a slightly higher plane.
They've got to think that he's really saved them, that he's turned over
the reins to other hands just as trustworthy as his--you can give the
president a big hand there--they've got to think his work is the basis
of our present foreign policy--can't you see the implications? It's got
to be spread on with a trowel, laid on skillfully--"

Shandor's face flushed deep red, and he ground the stub of his smoke out
viciously. "I'm sick of this stuff, Hart," he exploded. "I'm sick of
you, and I'm sick of this whole rotten setup, this business of writing
reams and reams of lies just to keep things under control. Ingersoll was
a great man, a _really_ great man, and he was _wasted_, thrown away. He
worked to make peace, and he got laughed at. He hasn't done a
thing--because he couldn't. Everything he has tried has been useless,
wasted. _That's_ the truth--why not tell that to the people?"

Hart stared. "Get hold of yourself," he snapped. "You know your job.
There's a story to write. The life of David Ingersoll. It has to go down
smooth." His dark eyes shifted to his hands, and back sharply to
Shandor. "A propagandist has to write it, Tommy--an ace propagandist.
You're the only one I know that could do the job."

"Not me," said Shandor flatly, standing up. "Count me out. I'm through
with this, as of now. Get yourself some other whipping boy. Ingersoll
was one man the people could trust. And he was one man I could never
face. I'm not good enough for him to spit on, and I'm not going to sell
him down the river now that he's dead."

With a little sigh John Hart reached into the desk. "That's very odd,"
he said softly. "Because Ingersoll left a message for you--"

Shandor snapped about, eyes wide. "Message--?"

The chubby man handed him a small envelope. "Apparently he wrote that a
long time ago. Told his daughter to send it to Public Information Board
immediately