Mickey Weisinger knew his name.
He walked into his office the morning after the last day of the conflict and noticed a workman scratching his name off the office door.
"What the hell's going on?"
"You're now the second-highest-paid ex-CEO in America," said an affable voice he knew only too well.
It was coming from inside his office. Mickey entered.
Bob Beasley was seated comfortably at his desk.
"Who gave you authority to take over?" Mickey shouted.
"Uncle Sam gave me the authority. I speak for Uncle Sam. Always have, always will."
"Uncle Sam! Isn't he dead? I wean, nothing's official, but I was monitoring the transmissions from France. And you came back alone."
"Not alone," drawled Bob Beasley, laying a hand on an insulated box resting on his desk-formerly Mickey Weisinger's desk. There was a small pressurized tank attached, and on it stenciled a word Mickey didn't normally associate with tanks: LOX.
"He's not dead?"
"Well, let's say he's not anything right at the moment."
"Say what?"
"Our medical people tell me I dipped him in liquid oxygen in time to prevent brain death. All we need is a suitable body to hook him up to, and the Sam Beasley Corporation will be back to business as usual."
And Bob Beasley turned the insulated box around, exposing a clear window on the other side. The window through which stared the frozen one-eyed head of Uncle Sam Beasley.
Behind him Mickey Weisinger heard the office door shut with a flat finality that meant no escape. None at all...