Marshal DiBusco marched into the office without further precaution. His sixty stellar dreadnaughts already controlled traffic around the station and his powered cavalry had secured the airlocks and corridors. A display of confidence seemed the best thing.
"It is time, Mr. Premier, to yield to the inevitabilities of history," he announced to the premier, who sat behind his table and gripped it fiercely to prevent any other physical reaction, as well as to the aides and other officials who indulged in the cowering to which their inferior positions entitled them.
The premier decided, between preserving silent dignity and taking a shot at preserving all society, to try the latter. "DiBusco! We've entered space! Can't you adopt a new way of thinking? This isn't how we solve disputes today!"
"But when we do, you see how effective it is." The marshal looked out the window at one of his many dreadnaughts as it drifted past, miles away. "That is the practical case. Philosophically, I disagree. Votes and procedures are simple effigies of violence. Force is behind every resolution of conflict. I have the most force, so necessarily I will be the one to resolve ours."
"That's where you're wrong, Marshal." One aide, a heroic flash in his eye, dared to speak. "There's one other condition you have to satisfy if you want to win."
DiBusco humored the aide. "What is that, sir?"
"You have to be able to draw on your turn. The premier passes."
"Eh?" DiBusco, in his puzzlement, frowned.
"Come on, draw. If you can."
The premier looked at the aide and then, with hope, at the marshal. "That's right, DiBusco! Draw a card!"
"I don't have any cards?"
The aide pumped his fist. "Then you lose!"
DiBusco, poleaxed, turned back to his men, who shrugged. He waved a withdrawal and followed them, grumbling, "Get some cards . . . have to research first . . . of all the . . . have to come back next week . . . miss the game . . ." Such are the ways of the future.
Finis
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