He scanned the faces in the Interspace Commerce boardroom one by one, thinking not what friends he had lost, but what mistakes he had made in the eternal stuggle for power. He turned and left the room. Another man, his fortune lost, his influence gone, would scream running to the nearest high window to fling himself out.
But he merely considered; This is not the way. Power gained here would always be diluted, shared. He did not want to sip power daintily from a glass, dabbing his mouth, maintaining decorum. He must drink lustily, wantonly from the very fountain of power.
He would begin again. First he would find wealth. An easy thing to do since he was a magnet for it. But wealth was merely a tool, the entry into the game. In itself, it was not what he sought. While doing so he would observe, he would learn. Who has power. Who has muscle. Who has vision.
He would gather others to his cause. They would grow rich from the association. They will thank him. They will love him. They will trickle power to him. As their numbers grow it will become a stream, a flood, a gushing fountain of power so high, so forceful, that lesser men would shrink from it. It would become the central landmark of Sirius. And he alone will direct its nourishing spray.
The name is Bliss. The forms will fit the needs of the current goals, but always Bliss.
