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                                MISRULE

                            by ROBERT SCOTT

                 Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars
                 for his good fortune every day of his
                 life ... every day, that is, but one!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The brick smashed through the window and skittered across the top of
Glen Wheatley's desk. He had already removed most of the breakables,
but it caught a large plastic ash tray and sent it caroming off his
cheekbone. A thin trickle of blood crept down his face.

"Good God, aren't they starting a little early this year?" Bert
Hillary, who shared Wheatley's office, was obviously not expe