“Okay, okay,” Joe Prantera growled. “So everybody’s got it made. What I wanta know is what’s all this about me giving it ta somebody? If everything’s so great, how come you want me to knock this guy off?”
Reston-Farrell bent forward and thumped his right index finger twice on the table. “The bacterium of hate—a new strain—has found the human race unprotected from its disease. We had thought our vaccines immunized us.”
“What’s that suppose to mean?”
Brett-James took up the ball again. “Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander, Caesar?”
Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.
“Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin?”
“Sure I heard of Hitler and Stalin,” Joe growled. “I ain’t stupid.”
The other nodded. “Such men are unique. They have a drive…a drive
