_It was a strange and bitter Earth over which the Chancellor ruled--a strange and deformed world. There were times when the Chancellor suspected that he really was a humanistic old fool, but this seemed to be his destiny and it was difficult to be anything else. Human, like all other organic life on Earth, was dying. Where it spawned, it spawned monsters. What was to be the answer?_

 it's all yours

 _by ... Sam Merwin, Jr. _

 It was a lonely thing to rule over a dying world--a world that had become sick, so terribly sick.... 

The Chancellor's private washroom, discreetly off the innermost of hisofficial suite of offices, was a dream of gleaming black porcelain andsolid gold. Each spout, each faucet, was a gracefully stylized mermaid, the combination stall shower-steam room a marvel of hydraulic comfortand decor with variable lighting plotted to give the user every sort ofbeneficial ray, from ultraviolet to black heat. 

But Bliss was used to it. At the moment, as he washed his hands, he wasfar more concerned with the reflection of his face in the mirror abovethe dolphin-shaped bowl. With a sort of wry resignation, he accepted thered rims of fatigue around his eyes, the batch of white at his lefttemple that was spreading toward the top of his dark, well-groomed head. He noted that the lines rising from the corners of his mouth to thecurves of his nostrils seemed to have deepened noticeably during thepast few days. 

As he dried his hands in the air-stream, he told himself that he wasletting his imagination run away with him--imagination had always beenhis weakness, and a grave failing for a head of state. And while he drewon his special, featherweight gloves, he reminded himself that, if hewas aging prematurely, it was nobody's fault but his own. No other manor woman approaching qualification for the job would have taken it--onlya sentimental, humanistic fool like himself. 

He took a quick sip from the benzedral fountain, waited for therestorative to do its work. Then, feeling moderately refreshed, hereturned to his office, sank into the plastifoam cushions of the chairbehind his tabletop mountain of a desk and pressed the button thatinformed Myra, his confidential secretary, he was ready. 

There were five in the delegation--by their collars or robes, a priest, a rabbi, a lama, a dark-skinned Watusi witchman and a white robed abbessdraped in chaste, flowing white. Automatically, he surveyed them, checking. The priest's right shoe was twice as broad as his left, therabbi's head, beneath the black cap that covered it, was long and thinas a zucchini squash. The witchman, defiantly bare and black as ebonyfrom the waist up, had a tiny duplicate of his own handsome headsprouting from the base of his sternum. The visible deformities of thelama and abbess were concealed beneath their flowing robes. But theywere there--they had to be there. 

Bliss rose as they entered and said, waving a gloved hand at the chairson their side of the desk, "Greetings, sirs and madam--please beseated. " And, when they were comfortable, "Now, to what do I owe thehonor of this visit?"

He knew, of course--sometimes he thought he knew more than any manshould be allowed or able to know--but courtesy and custom demanded thequestion. It was the witchman who answered. Apparently he was spokesmanfor the group. 

He said, speaking beautiful Cantabrigian English, "Honorable sir, wehave come as representatives of the religions of the world, not toprotest but in a spirit of enquiry. Our flocks grow increasinglyrestive, when they are not leaving us altogether, our influence growsless. We wish to know what steps, if any, are being taken towardmodification or abrogation of the sterility program. Without hope ofposterity, mankind is lost. "

While the others murmured their agreement, Bliss focused his gaze on thesealed lids of the tiny face sprouting from the Watusi's breastbone. Hewondered if there were eyes behind them, if there were a tongue behindthose tiny clamped lips, and what words such a tongue would utter if itcould speak. 

"We are waiting, honorable sir, " the spokesman said. 

Shaking himself free of the absorption, Bliss glanced at theteleprompter on his desk. Efficient as ever, Myra had their names therebefore him. He said, "Gentle R'hau-chi, I believe a simple expositionof our situation, and of what programs we are seeking to meet andmitigate it with, will give you the answers. Not, perhaps, the answersyou seek, but the answers we must accept ... "

Although the reports from World Laboratories changed from day to day, heknew the speech by heart. For the problem remained. Humanity, likevirtually all other organic life on Earth, was dying. Where it spawned, it spawned monsters. On three-dimensional vidar rolls, he showed themlive shots of what the laboratories were doing, what they were trying todo--in the insemination groups, the incubators, the ray-bombardmentchambers, the parthenogenesis bureau. 

Studying them, he could see by their expressions, hear by the prayersthey muttered, how shocking these revelations were. It was one thing toknow what was going on--another for them to see for themselves. It wasneither pretty--nor hopeful. 

When it was over, the rabbi spoke. He said, in deep, slightly guttural, vastly impressive intonations, "What about Mars, honorable sir? Have youreached communication with our brothers and sisters on the red planet?"

Bliss shook his head. He glanced at the alma-calendar at his elbow andtold them, "Mars continues to maintain silence--as it has for twohundred and thirty-one years. Ever since the final war. "

They knew it, but they had to hear it from him to accept it evenbriefly. There was silence, long wretched silence. Then the abbessspoke. She said, "Couldn't we send out a ship to study conditions firsthand, honorable sir?"

Bliss sighed. He said, "The last four spaceships on Earth were sent toMars at two-year intervals during the last perihelions. Not one of themcame back. That was more than a half century ago. Since I accepted thisoffice, I have had some of our ablest remaining scientific brainsworking on the problem of building a new ship. They have not beensuccessful. " He laid his gloved hands, palms upward, on the desk, added, "It appears that we have lost the knack for such projects. "

When they were gone, he walked to the broad window and looked out overthe World Capital buildings at the verdant Sahara that stretchedhundreds of miles to the foot of the faintly purple Atlas Mountains onthe northwestern horizon. A blanket of brilliant green, covering whathad once been the greatest of all Earthly deserts--but a poisonousblanket of strange plant mutations, some of them poisonous beyondbelief. 

Truly, Bliss thought, he belonged to a remarkable species. Man hadconquered his environment, he had even, within the limits of the SolarSystem, conquered space. He had planted, and successfully, his own kindon a neighboring planet and made it grow. But man had never, at leaston his home planet, conquered himself. 

Overpopulation had long since ceased to be a problem--the atomic warshad seen to that. But, thanks to the miracles of science--atomics andautomation--man had quickly rebuilt the world into a Garden of Eden withup-to-date plumbing. He might have won two planets, but he had turnedhis Eden into an arbor of deadly nightshade. 

Oddly, it had not been the dreadful detonations of thermo-nuclear bombsthat had poisoned his paradise--though, of course, they had helped. Ithad been the constant spillage of atomic waste into the upper atmospherethat had spelled ruin. Now, where four billion people had once lived inwar and want, forty million lived in poisoned plenty. He was chancellorof a planet whose ruling species could not longer breed withoutdisaster. 

His was the last generation. It should have been a peaceful generation. But it was not. 

For, as population decreased, so did the habitable areas of Earth. Theformerly overpopulated temperate regions were now ghastly jungles ofself-choking mutant plant growth. Only what had been the wasteareas--Antarctica, the Gobi, Australia, Patagonia and the Sahara-Arabiadistricts--could still support even the strange sorts of human life thatremained. 

And the forty millions still alive were restless, frightened, paranoiac. Each believed his own group was being systematically exterminated infavor of some other. None had yet faced the fact that humanity, for allpractical purposes, was already dead on Earth. 

He sensed another presence in the room. It was Myra, his secretary, bearing a sheaf of messages in one hand, a sheaf of correspondence forhim to sign in the other. She said, "You look beat, chancellor. Sitdown. "

Bliss sat down. Myra, as his faithful and efficient amanuensis for morethan fifteen years, had her rights. One of them was taking care of himduring working hours. She was still rather pretty, he noted withsurprise. An Afro-Asian with skin like dark honey and smooth, pleasant, rather flat features. It was, he thought, a pity she had that third eyein her forehead. 

She stood beside him while he ran through the letters and signed them. "Meeting of the regional vice-chancellors tomorrow, eh?" he said as hehanded them back to her. 

"Right, chancellor, " she said crisply. "Ten o'clock. You may have totake another whirlwind trip to tell them the situation is well in hand. "

He grunted and glanced at the messages, scanned them quickly, tossedthem into the disposal vent beside his desk. Myra looked moderatelydisapproving. "What about that possible ship from Mars?" she asked. "Shouldn't you look into it?"

He grunted again, looked up at her, said, "If I'd looked into every'ship from Mars' astronomy has come up with in the nine years I've heldthis office, I'd never have had time for anything else. You can lay oddsit's a wild asteroid or something like that. "

"They sound pretty sure this time, " Myra said doubtfully. 

"Don't they always?" he countered. "Come on, Myra, wrap it up. Time togo home. "

"Roger, boss, " she said, blinking all three eyes at him. 

Bliss turned on the autopi and napped while the gyrojet carried him tohis villa outside Dakar. Safely down on the roof of the comfortable, automatic white house, he took the lift down to his second-floor suite, where he showered and changed into evening sandals and clout. Heredonned his gloves, then rode down another two flights to the terrace, where Elise was waiting for him in a gossamer-thin iridescent eggshellsari. They kissed and she patted the place on the love-seat beside her. She had a book--an old-fashioned book of colored reproductions oflong-since-destroyed old masters on her lap. The artist was a man namedPeter Paul Rubens. 

Eyeing the opulent nudes, she giggled and said, "Don't they lookawfully--plain? I mean, women with only two breasts!"

"Well--yes, " he said. "If you want to take that angle. "

"Idiot!" she said. "Honestly, darling, you're the strangest sort of manto be a World Chancellor. "

"These are strange times, " he told her, smiling without mirth, thoughwith genuine affection. 

"Suppose--just suppose, " she said, turning the pages slowly, "biologyshould be successful in stabilizing the species again. Would they _have_to set it back that far? I mean, either we or _they_ would feel awfullyout of style. "

"What would you suggest?" he asked her solemnly. 

"Don't be nasty, " she said loftily. Then she giggled again and ruffledhis hair. "I wish you'd have it dyed one color, " she told him. "Eitherblack or gray--or why not a bright puce?"

"What's for dinner?" he asked, adding, "If I can still eat after that. "

 * * * * *

The regional vice-chancellors were awaiting him in thenext-to-the-innermost office when Bliss arrived at WorldCapital the next morning. Australia, Antarctica, Patagonia, Gobi, Sahara-Arabia--they followed him inside like so many penguins in theblack-and-white official robes. All were deathly serious as they statedtheir problems. 

Gobi wanted annual rainfall cut from 60 to 45 centimeters. 

Sahara-Arabia was not receiving satisfactory food synthetics--there hadbeen Moslem riots because of pork flavor in the meat. 

Patagonia was suffering through a species of sport-worm that wasthreatening to turn it into a desert if biology didn't come up with aremedy fast. 

Antarctica wanted temperature lowered from a nighttime norm of 62°Fahrenheit to 57. 6°. It seemed that the ice in the skating rinks, whichwere the chief source of exercise and entertainment for the populace, got mushy after ten p. M. 

Australia wanted the heavy uranium deposits under the Great CentralDesert neutralized against its causing further mutations. 

For a moment, Bliss was tempted to remind his viceroys that it was notgoing to make one bit of difference whether they made their spoiledcitizens happy or not. The last man on Earth would be dead within fiftyyears or so, anyway. But that would have been an unpardonable breach oftaste. Everyone _knew_, of course, but it was never mentioned. To statethe truth was to deny hope. And without hope, there was no life. 

Bliss promised to see that these matters were tended to at once, takingeach in turn. This done, they discussed his making another whirlwindtrip through the remaining major dominions of the planet to bolstermorale. He was relieved when at last, the amenities concluded, thepenguins filed solemnly out. He didn't know which he found moreunattractive--Gobi's atrophied third leg, strapped tightly to the insideof his left thigh and calf, or Australia's jackass ears. Then, sternly, he reminded himself that it was not their fault they weren't as lucky ashimself. 

Myra came in, her three eyes aglow, and said, "Boss, you were wrong foronce in your life. "

"What is it this time?" he asked. 

"About that Martian ship, " she repeated. "It just landed on the oldspaceport. You can see it from the window. "

"For God's sake!" Bliss was on his feet, moving swiftly to the window. It was there--needle-nosed, slim as one of the mermaids in his privatewashroom, graceful as a vidar dancer. The entire length of it gleamedlike silver in the sunlight. 

Bliss felt the premature old age that had been crowding upon him of latefall away like the wool of a sheep at shearing. Here, at last, washope--real hope. After almost two and a half centuries ofnon-communication, the men of the infant planet had returned to the aidof the aging planet. For, once they saw the condition of Earth, andunderstood it, there could be no question of anything else. 

Mars, during the years of space-flight from Earth, had been the outletfor the mother planet's ablest, toughest, brightest, most aggressiveyoung men and women. They had gone out to lick a hostile environment, they had been hand-picked for the job--and they had done it. The ship, out there in the poisonous Sahara, was living proof of their success. 

He turned from the window and went back to his desk. He said, "Myra, have their leader brought here to see me as soon as possible. "

"_Roger!_" she said, leaving him swiftly, gracefully. Again he thoughtit was too bad about her third eye. It had made it awfully hard for herto find a husband. He supposed he should be grateful, since it had madehim an incomparably efficient secretary. 

The young man was space-burned and silver-blond of hair. He was broadand fair of feature and his body was tall and lean and perfect in hisblack, skin-tight uniform with the silver rocket-burst on the leftbreast. He stood at attention, lifted a gauntleted hand in salute andsaid, "Your excellency, Chancellor Bliss--Space-Captain Hon Yaelstrom ofSyrtis City, Mars, bearing official rank of Inter-planetary legateplenipotentiary. My papers, sir. "

He stood stiff as a ramrod and laid a set of imposing-looking documentson the vast desk before Bliss. His accent was stiff as his spinalcolumn. Bliss glanced casually at the papers, nodded and handed themback. So this, he thought, was how a "normal, " a pre-atomic, anon-mutated human, looked. Impressive. 

Catching himself wandering, he pushed a box of costly smokes toward theambassador. 

"_Nein_--no thank you, sir, " was the reply. 

"Suppose you sit down and tell me what we can do for you, " said Bliss, motioning toward a chair. 

"Thank you, sir, I prefer to stand, " was the reply. And, when Blissmotioned that it was all right, "My mission is not a happy one, excellency. Due to overpopulation on Mars, I have been sent to informthe government of Earth that room must be made to take care of ouroverpopulation. "

"I see, " Bliss leaned back in his chair, trying to read the situationcorrectly. "That may take a little doing. You see, we aren't exactlyawash with real estate here. "

The reply was rigid and harsh. Captain Yaelstrom said, "I regret toremind your excellency that I have circled this planet before landing. It is incredibly rich in plant growth, incredibly underpopulated. And Iassure your excellency that my superiors have not sent me here with anyidle request. Mars must have room to emigrate. "

"And if we find ourselves unable to give it to you?"

"I fear we shall have to take it, your excellency. "

Bliss studied the visitor from space, then said, "This is rather sudden, you know. I fear it will take time. You must have prospered amazingly onMars to have overpopulated the planet so soon. "

"Conditions have not been wholly favorable, " was the cryptic reply. "Butas to time, we are scarcely in condition to move our surplus populationovernight. It will take years--perhaps decades--twenty-five years at aminimum. "

Twenty-five years! That was too soon. If Captain Yaelstrom were atypical Martian, there was going to be trouble. Bliss recalled againthat Earth had sent only its most aggressive young folk out to the redplanet. He made up his mind then and there that he was somehow going tosalvage for Earth its final half-century of peace. 

He said, "How many people do you plan to send here, Captain?"

The ambassador hesitated. Then he said, "According to the computationsof our experts, taking the population curve during the next twenty-fiveyears into account, there will be seventeen million, three hundredthirty-two thousand five hundred--approximately. "

The figure was too large to be surplus, Bliss decided. It sounded to himas if humanity were about to abandon Mars completely. He wondered whatthe devil had gone wrong, decided this was hardly the time to ask. Heoffered Captain Yaelstrom a drink, which was refused, then asked him ifhe wouldn't like to wash up. 

To his mild surprise, the ambassador nodded eagerly. "I shall begrateful, " he said. "You have no idea how cramped spaceship quarters canbe. "

"I can imagine, " said Bliss dryly. He led the way into theblack-and-gold washroom, was amused at the slight but definite poppingof ambassadorial eyes. Earth might be dying, he thought, but at leasther destroyers would leave a heritage. He motioned toward the basin withits mermaid taps and Captain Yaelstrom hesitated, then began pulling offhis black gauntlets. 

Bliss thought of something. "You mentioned twenty-five years, " he said. "Is that Martian time or Earth time?"

"Martian time, " said the ambassador, letting the water run over hishands. 

Twenty-five years, Martian time--a Martian year was 1. 88 Earth years. Bliss exhaled and said, "I think perhaps we shall be able to come to anagreement. It will take a little time, of course--channels, and allthat. "

The Martian held his hands in front of the air-drier. They were strong, brown hands with long, muscular fingers. Bliss looked at them and knewthe whole story. For, like himself, Captain Yaelstrom had seven fingerson each. Man had done no better on Mars than he had at home. The reasonfor such a desperate move as emigration was all too clear. 

Captain Yaelstrom stood back from the bowl, then noticed the stallshower. He said, "What is this? We have nothing like it on Mars. "

Bliss explained its several therapeutic uses, then said, "Perhaps you'dlike to try it yourself while I order us luncheon. "

"May I, excellency?" the Martian legate asked eagerly. 

"Go right ahead, " said Bliss magnanimously. "It's all yours. "

Transcriber's Note:

 This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ November 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.